


From the Ashes

by clairdeloon



Series: Dust to Dust [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: ...yet, Angst, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Child Abuse, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Hurt Michelle Jones, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Michelle Jones Needs a Hug, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Without Powers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-08-11 09:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20151595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairdeloon/pseuds/clairdeloon
Summary: “Pepper would be able to do it,” Tony said tonelessly, his eyes following the movement of the nail rotating between his thumb and forefinger. He hated how his voice still wavered when he said her name.“Tony, I know,” said Rhodey, his tone soft. “We’ve all lost people, everyone has-”“Don’t you think I know that?” Tony said angrily, yanking his wrist out of Rhodey’s grasp. He pulled back, but Rhodey lurched forward and grabbed his upper arms in a harsh grip, shaking him once.“Damn it, Tony, this isn’t about winning the world’s best parent award,” Rhodey snapped. “There are millions of kids out there, millions, who’ve lost their parents and have nowhere to go.”He caught Tony’s eye.“That’s something you can do, Tony, give a kid a place to go.”-Seven-some months after the Snap, the world is still reeling from its loss. The city is overrun with countless orphaned children, so anyone even remotely capable of housing a kid is asked to pitch in. Tony can hardly say no, but when he stares down at the scrawny, wide-eyed fourteen-year-old looking up at him in the entrance of the lab, Tony has never been more out of his depth.





	1. What Remained (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the novel Goodnight, Mister Tom by Michelle Magorian. The fic follows a few of the major plotlines of the novel, although they have been significantly altered to fit the setting and characters of the MCU.
> 
> This story mostly follows canon up until the Snap, aside from Peter Parker's storyline. In this universe, the Snap occurred before Peter was bitten, and when Uncle Ben was still alive. Post Snap, the story diverges entirely, and is not Endgame-compliant.

“I went forward in time, to view alternate futures,” says Strange. “To see all the possible outcomes of the coming conflict.”

“How many did you see?”

“Fourteen million six hundred and five.”

“How many did we win?”

“One.”

They don’t win.

Tony knows it as he watches Strange crumble to dust, the defeated expression on his face speaking volumes.

Whatever reason the man had for relinquishing the Time Stone, this wasn’t it.

This isn’t how things were supposed to go.

Miles and miles away, May Parker watches on in horror as her husband disintegrates before her eyes. She follows soon after, her final thought of her kid, the boy who is as good as her son, who has lost so much already.

A thirteen-year-old girl stumbles through the door of her home to find what remains of her mother scattered across the floor. Halfway across the country, her father watches body after body fade to nothing, blissfully unaware that he has a daughter who is now alone in the world. She looks just like him.

Nineteen people die on impact when their bus flips over, the driver's seat empty save for a dusting of ash. The seven passengers still alive die soon after, their injuries too severe to wait for the help that isn’t coming. The remaining members of their families wait, hope steadily draining from them as they peer through dusty windows to view the wreckage that is their city.

An unborn child fades away along with her expectant mother. Her father clings desperately to his wife’s body until dust slips through his fingers.

**Seven months and twenty-one days later:**

“What d’you mean, take in a kid?” Tony asked incredulously, pulling at a strand of his ungroomed facial hair, a rusty screwdriver hanging loosely from his other hand.

Christ, he needed to shave.

“Everyone’s got to pitch it, it’s not just you,” Rhodey replied, sighing, as he stretched out his braced legs and leaned back into his seat.

“I don’t see you scrambling to adopt a handful of strays,” Tony muttered, trying to steady his hand enough to fit the minuscule Phillips head into the tiny nail at the base of the PC. He didn’t know why he bothered; he hadn’t used a laptop since the early 2000s.

“I’m on-”

“Active duty, I know,” said Tony, finally loosening the nail enough to pull it out with chipped fingernails. “But what kid with two brain cells to rub together would want to live with me?”

Tony fiddled with the nail he’d just unscrewed, twisting it aimlessly between his fingers. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Fiddling with things needlessly. Dismantling old, outdated tech. Pulling loose threads from his cuff. Anything to distract himself from all that had happened. From the world he had to live in, after the Snap.

Rhodey reached out and wrapped a hand around Tony’s wrist, halting his movements. The sudden warmth of the contact made Tony jolt, but he didn’t pull away.

“Pepper would be able to do it,” Tony said tonelessly, his eyes following the movement of the nail rotating between his thumb and forefinger. He hated how his voice still wavered when he said her name. It had been nearly eight months, but her absence still stabbed at him like a rusted knife, like a scalpel slicing open his chest in a dark Afghan cave. Like Cap’s shield cutting into where the arc reactor used to be…

Pepper had never had kids, she hadn’t even had siblings, but she’d had the uncanny ability to succeed at pretty much anything she her mind to. She’d always known the right thing to say. The best step to take. The right decision to make. Not like Tony, who’d utterly failed when it actually mattered. All the tech in the world hadn’t been enough to stop it all from happening. All Tony could do was watch helplessly, cradling Pepper’s face in his hands as she faded to dust.

“Tony, I know,” said Rhodey, his tone soft. “We’ve all lost people, everyone has-”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Tony said angrily, yanking his wrist out of Rhodey’s grasp. He pulled back, but Rhodey lurched to his feet and grabbed Tony’s upper arms in a harsh grip, shaking him once.

“Damn it, Tony, this isn’t about winning the world’s best parent award,” Rhodey snapped. “There are millions of kids out there, millions, who’ve lost their parents and have nowhere to go.”

Tony slumped a little, and Rhodey let go of his arms and stepped back slightly. 

“Shouldn’t CPS be banging down my door, then? Why’s it your job?” Tony asked, the fight drained out of him.

Rhodey shifted back on his feet, one hand gripping the armrest of his seat.

"CPS is overrun, there are just too many kids and not enough families to go around. The military had to step in.”

He paused to sit down.

“Your name came up, I offered to ask.”

“You would, wouldn’t you,” said Tony, sitting heavily in the chair next to the desk he had been working at.

Rhodey swiveled his chair so he was facing Tony.

“Children’s homes are overcrowded, there’s a major shortage of foster homes, and in a situation like this, all a kid really needs is security. Food on the table. A safe place to stay.”

He caught Tony’s eye. 

“That’s something you can do, Tony, give a kid somewhere safe to stay.”

Tony closed his eyes, sighing heavily. 

“All right,” he said shortly, “I’ll do it.”

Tony had known it would come to this the moment Rhodey had brought it up. How could he say no, when this was all on him? It was his failure to stop Thanos that had resulted in millions of orphaned children. 

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

“Send out the homing pigeons, do whatever it is you people do.”

Rhodey clapped him on the shoulder before turning to go. He paused by the door, glancing back as if to say something. But Tony had turned away, screwdriver in hand, to remove the remaining nails that kept all the pieces together.


	2. Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Note: In this universe, Peter has not yet been bitten, so Spider-Man therefore does not exist in this story as it currently stands.

Peter and MJ sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Peter kept trying to catch MJ’s eye, but every time he did, she would glance away quickly, dark curls falling over her facing.

He pushed the remaining Cheerios to the side of his bowl, his back protesting the movement of his arm. He bit back a wince.

MJ wasn’t eating at all. Her full bowl stood untouched, cereal grown soggy and unappetizing, and she sat ramrod straight in her chair. She seemed unaware of the spoon clenched in her fist.

The two younger kids had already eaten, their used bowls still on the table, and Peter made a note to wash them before Skip came down. They were just little kids, the older of them only seven, but age didn’t seem to matter to Skip. He’d be angry that they’d left their dishes behind when they ran off to catch their ride to the local, charity-funded summer camp. The one for the children who’d been left behind.

Peter drew in a breath to speak, to say anything to break the suffocating silence between them, but he pressed his lips together when he heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs.

Peter and MJ both stiffened, but the thumping paused, then the footsteps grew fainter as they trudged back up the stairs. Peter glanced back at MJ, who stared at her uneaten cereal. He bit back the frustration that had been steadily building since he’d woken up.

Why wouldn’t she just speak to him? Why did she have to be so damn inscrutable all the time? Peter clenched his teeth and squashed the soggy pieces of cereal in his bowl with the back of his spoon.

Peter let out an involuntary gasp and straightened up when he heard Skip thundering down the stairs again, his motion mirrored by MJ. They both stared resolutely at the table as the man approached.

“Peter, finish up and put on your shoes,” Skip said in a tight voice. Against his better judgement, Peter looked at Skip in askance.

“Do it,” the man ordered, his voice hard.

Peter stood up on shaky knees, finally catching MJ’s eye. Her face had gone a bit pale, but she appeared as nonplussed as he felt. Hunching his shoulders, Peter sidled past Skip to grab his shoes by the front door, and he was startled to see his suitcase propped up beside them.

“What’s going on?” he asked in an unsteady voice.

Skip turned and glared at him, the man’s expression irritated, and...possibly a little fearful? Peter felt the beginnings of panic stirring in his chest.

“You can’t stay here anymore,” Skip finally replied, his tone flat. “Someone’s coming to pick you up.”

“W-why?” Peter asked, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking.

He saw MJ peering out of the kitchen door, and he looked at her imploringly, although what she could possibly do to help him, he didn’t know. She looked back at him, her usually unreadable face appearing tense. Uncertain. Perhaps betraying a small part of the fear Peter felt.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Skip snapped. Peter grabbed the handle of his suitcase, his grip tightening around it as he stepped into his shoes. They’d grown loose and frayed from being repeatedly kicked off with the laces still tied.

“Just- wait outside.” Skip stalked forward and shoved Peter towards the door. Peter jumped forward, grabbing his bag and pushing the screen door open to scramble outside. Before it could swing closed, Skip grabbed Peter by the back of his shirt collar and leaned in close. Peter’s breath caught in his throat.

“You say one word,” Skip said in a low tone into Peter’s ear. The man’s breath was stale. “One word, and your pretty little friend will feel the consequences.”

Peter nodded frantically, icy fear lacing through his chest. Apparently satisfied, Skip pushed Peter roughly away and retreated into the house, slamming the front door behind him.

Peter stood frozen for several moments, his hand clenched so hard around the handle of his suitcase that he could feel the ridges digging into his palm.

_What did I do? Is it because of last night? What about MJ?_

The thoughts kept racing in circles through his mind, and Peter felt his chest grow steadily tighter. He dragged his suitcase towards the sidewalk and sat heavily on the curb, sweat already gathering at his hairline from the summer heat. He couldn’t say quite how long he sat there, curb uncomfortably hot beneath him. He pressed his forehead into his palms, trying to breathe slowly, the way May had always told him to when he was younger and had come to her with nightmares. It didn’t really help, this time.

Peter’s head shot up when he heard a car approach, and his eyes widened involuntary when he spotted the shiny, obviously expensive car that had pulled to a stop in front of him. The driver, a dark-haired, middle-aged man who looked somewhat put-upon, poked his head out of the open window.

“Peter Parker?” the man called out. Peter stood quickly and grabbed his suitcase, stumbling back when the man got out of the car and plucked the case out of Peter’s hand to toss it into the trunk. The man was large, larger than Skip, posing a distinctly intimidating presence that Peter was loathe to get on the wrong side of.

“Well, come on, then,” the man said impatiently, trudging back towards the driver’s seat.

Peter darted forward and climbed into the back seat. Once he was buckled in, the car immediately pulled away, and Peter twisted around and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of MJ peering out of the kitchen window. Her face disappeared abruptly, and he turned back to sit tensely in his seat, the air-conditioned car something of a relief. The air blew against his face, a curl tickling his forehead as it fluttered. He shifted forward slightly, trying not to rest his back against the leather seat.

Peter wanted to say something; he had always been a nervous talker, and the silence in the car felt awkward and heavy. But the man, Mr. Hogan (according to the badge pinned to his breast pocket), didn’t seem the chatty type, and whenever Peter drew breath, his chest tightened with a nauseating sort of fear. He pressed his lips together and shifted again, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Thirty-odd minutes into the drive, Peter couldn’t take it anymore.

“Where- where am I going?” Peter asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms.

“Speak up, kid.” Mr. Hogan glanced at Peter through the rear-view mirror.

Peter swallowed, inhaling sharply.

“Where am I going?” he asked again, his voice stronger. “Did something happen- is MJ- are they-?”

Once Peter starting talking, all the questions seem to overflow to the point where he couldn’t string a full sentence together. He squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the barrage of increasingly daunting thoughts.

“You all right, kid?”

Peter’s eyes shot open to catch Mr. Hogan’s narrowed eyes in the mirror.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Peter swallowed again, his throat dry.

Mr. Hogan looked back at the road.

“I don’t know why you’re leaving Mr. Westcott’s place, but I _can_ tell you that you’re going to stay with Tony Stark.”

Peter sat there, frozen.

_It's funny_, Peter thought bitterly, _how, barely a year ago, I would have been over the moon to get the chance to even breathe the same air as Tony Stark._

Now, though, all he felt was a tired sort of surprise and a growing sense of trepidation.

Peter bit his lip hard, looking down at his clenched hands. He felt Mr. Hogan’s eyes on him again, but he focused his gaze stubbornly away and stared at his hands for the rest of the ride, his ribs throbbing steadily with the gentle vibration of the car.

After a long, long while, they pulled into the lot next to Stark Tower, and Mr. Hogan wasted no time in climbing out of the car and grabbing Peter’s suitcase from the trunk. Peter hurried after him, jogging slightly to keep up with Mr. Hogan’s brisk pace. As they awaited the elevator, Peter tentatively tried to take his suitcase, but the man glanced down at Peter and shook his head.

“I got it, kid,” Mr. Hogan said gruffly.

The ride to the penthouse was silent and tense, and Peter wasted no time in exiting the elevator to follow Mr. Hogan down a long hallway. The sheer opulence of the building made him dizzy. They eventually reached a door near the end of the hall, which Mr. Hogan shoved open and dropped the suitcase by the doorway, gesturing to Peter to follow him inside.

Peter glanced around the room, taken-aback at how large it was. It was well-stocked, too, with clothes peeking out of the dresser drawers and closet, and there was a desktop computer _and_ TV set up in the room. There was even an attached bathroom.

Peter couldn’t help gaping a little.

Mr. Hogan cleared his throat, and Peter jumped, turning quickly to face the man.

“You can get yourself sorted in here, and Friday will send you downstairs to meet Tony.”

With that, Mr. Hogan backed out of the room and closed it halfway behind him.

“W-wait, who’s Friday?” Peter called after him, but the man was already gone.

“Hello, Peter,” a cool female voice greeted him.

Peter started, glancing around wildly for the voice’s owner.

“I am FRIDAY, Mr. Stark’s personal AI.”

Mr Stark had a personal AI? Obviously. He was Tony Stark.

“When you’re ready, I will direct you to Mr. Stark’s lab, where he is currently occupied.”

“Um, okay, thanks,” Peter responded hesitantly, feeling strange speaking to a disembodied voice. “Can I have a few minutes?”

“You may take as much time as you need,” FRIDAY responded.

Peter felt a jolt of anxiety, and a part of him wished he could just hide in the room for the foreseeable future. He zipped open his suitcase and shuffled through it to find his least frayed pair of jeans and the one dress shirt he had. He pulled his sweaty, faded t-shirt over his head, wincing at the twinge in his ribs as he did so. After changing his jeans and buttoning up his shirt, he tossed his used clothes into was he assumed was a laundry basket next to the closet.

He took a deep, trembling breath.

“Um, FRIDAY, I’m, uh, ready to…”

FRIDAY responded quickly with clearly-worded instructions, directing Peter to the elevator and down several winding hallways and stairs until he came to a stop at the outside of a glass door. Peter chewed his lip as he peered through it, trying to catch a glimpse of the man inside. Before he could knock, FRIDAY spoke again.

“Boss, Peter Parker has arrived and is standing outside the door of the lab.”

Peter heard a _clang_ and a muffled curse, and he jumped back when he saw Mr. Stark hurrying towards the door. It slid open, and Peter stared up at the man who had once been his hero.


	3. Keep Breathing

Mr. Stark studied Peter for a long moment, and it was all Peter could do not to curl in on himself at the scrutiny.

The man shook his head slightly, as if brushing away a fly.

“Hey, there, kid, I’m Tony Stark. You probably knew that already, but...”

He thrust out a hand, and Peter barely suppressed a flinch. He shook Mr. Stark’s hand briefly, before pulling back and shoving his hands into his pockets, and he forced himself to make eye contact.

“I’m- I’m Peter. Parker. P- Peter Parker.” 

Peter flushed at his gaffe.

_How awkward can I possibly be? He probably thinks I’m pathetic._

Oddly, Mr. Stark smiled.

“Nice to meet you, Peter Parker. I’m Tony Stark. Wait, I just said that, didn’t I?”

Mr. Stark shook his head again, running a hand through his hair.

“Come in, no reason to stand here like a couple of mannequins.”

He gestured for Peter to follow him inside, and Peter couldn’t help but stare in amazement as they entered, his eyes darting quickly from side to side in an attempt to catch a glimpse of everything at once.

The lab was dimly lit with blue-tinted lights glowing from the ceiling, and suits, dozens of them, lined the walls. The dust gathered on their glass cases suggested that they hadn’t been touched in a while. The floors were crowded with tables, so many that Peter had to consciously avoid bumping against their corners as he walked by. From what he could see, many of the tables were laden with scraps of metal and components of various laptop computers and handheld devices. It reminded Peter a bit of his desk back home with May and Ben, when he’d used to bring home old computers from the trash and take them apart.

He was pulled abruptly back to the present when Mr. Stark spoke.

“This is my lab, obviously, and it’s probably safe for you to touch most of what’s in here- wait, how old are you, exactly?” Mr. Stark asked, cutting off his introduction.

“I’m fourteen,” Peter mumbled, biting his lip.

Mr. Stark tilted his head.

“Guess that’s old enough,” he said. “Just try not to knock anything over.”

Peter nodded jerkily and glanced away.

There was an awkward pause, during which Peter stared at the floor and felt Mr. Stark’s gaze on him.

“So, you hungry?” asked Mr. Stark.

He _was_ hungry. Peter had hardly eaten anything before Skip had shoved him out the door, and dinner...had he even eaten dinner last night? In any case, Peter’s stomach gnawed with hunger, but would it make him seem greedy if he said yes? What if-

“Ha, dumb question, of course you are,” Mr. Stark said with an odd chuckle before Peter could formulate a response. “Teenage kids are hungry all the time, aren’t they?”

Peter shrugged minutely, eyes still on the ground.

“How do you feel about pizza?” Mr. Stark asked.

“Pizza- pizza’s fine,” Peter said, a nervous quaver in his voice.

“Hey, FRI,” Tony called out. “Order us some pizza, would you? And Coke- wait, do you like Coke?” Tony directed at Peter, who nodded quickly.

“Will do, boss,” said FRIDAY, her disembodied voice echoing throughout the room.

“Okay, just sit down wherever, the pizza should be here pretty soon.”

Peter dropped into the nearest chair, ignoring the ache in his back as he curled his shoulders inward. He straightened up quickly when Mr. Stark leaned against the table next to him.

“So, uh, what school do you go to?” Mr. Stark asked, his gaze direct.

“I -um I- I was supposed to start at Midtown Tech next month, but I don’t know if it’s still…” Peter trailed off uncomfortably.

“Well, do you _want_ to go to Midtown Tech?” Mr. Stark asked.

Peter’s heart rate sped up a bit. What was the right answer?

“Y-yes,” he finally said, looking anywhere but at the man.

Mr. Stark straightened up. 

“I can make that happen,” he said. “Assuming the school is still running.”

“You don’t have to…” Peter said haltingly, gnawing at the inside of his lip.

“I said I’ll make it happen,” Mr. Stark said in a stiff tone. Peter couldn’t tell if he was annoyed.

“Th-thank you,” Peter whispered.

“It’s nothing, kid.” 

A short while later, the pizza arrived, and Mr. Stark wasted no time in grabbing a slice for himself and shoving the box towards Peter. The man then settled by a table several feet away, tinkering at something Peter couldn't see with one hand and taking an occasional bite of pizza from the other. Peter finished his slice quickly and stared at the remaining pizza, swiveling his chair back and forth on the wheels. After several long moments, Mr. Stark turned around and raised his eyebrows.

“Pretty sure it’s a crime in some states to eat less than two slices of pizza,” he said with a slight smirk. Peter felt his lips turn up at the corners, and he grabbed another slice. 

“Take as much as you want, kid,” said Mr. Stark, turning back to the table. “I’m an old man, my GI system can’t take much more.”

At Mr. Stark’s urging, Peter finished a second _and_ third slice and sipped at his Coke, feeling sated, as he leaned back and watched Mr. Stark work. He glanced at his lap when the man turned his head.

“You can go mess around with anything that’s out on the tables,” he said. “You’re probably bored; I don’t have much around here that would interest a kid…”

Mr. Stark turned back when Peter scurried over to one of the tables where he spotted a haphazard pile of circuit boards. It had been months since Peter had had the chance to mess around with hardware, and a small, pained part of him eased at the thought of doing so. He began to sort through the circuit boards, separating them by size.

*****

Tony jumped and spun around in his seat when he heard a crash behind him.

_Oh, god, the kid, how did I forget about the kid…_

“Hey, everything all right?” Tony called as he hurried over, wrench still in hand, to where the kid sat.

The kid turned quickly, his eyes wide and... terrified?

A stack of circuit boards had tipped over and scattered all over the floor, which explained the noise, but it _didn’t_ explain why the kid flinched and stumbled back to land on the floor with his arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

“Kid, you okay?” Tony asked tentatively, hesitant to step any closer.

The kid started gasping for breath, and Tony tossed the wrench aside, dropped to his knees, and grabbed his shoulders.

Panic attacks he could handle.

He squeezed the kid’s shoulders tightly, and Peter blinked, drawing in a choked breath.

“That’s right, kid, take a deep breath,” Tony said, trying to catch the kid’s eye.

Peter drew another wheezing breath and tried to pull away from Tony’s hands, muttering, “Gonna- gonna be sick-”

Tony didn’t let go.

“Just keep breathing, there you go-”

The kid inhaled sharply, and then turned his head to the side and vomited.

“S-s-sorry,” the kid stammered through a choked sob.

Tony’s chest tightened at that. Why was the kid apologizing? What had Tony done to make him think he had to? Why was he-?

Peter retched again, and Tony reached over to pat the boy’s upper back tentatively. He tried not to think about how the kid’s shoulders quivered with suppressed sobs.

“Just breathe,” Tony said again, feeling utterly inadequate.

He repeated the words until the boy’s breaths steadied, and he then gripped the kid’s chin in his hand and turned his head to look him in the eyes. They appeared glassy and unfocused.

_Maybe he’s just sick. He just needs to rest... take him up to bed and see how he feels in the morning. That’s what you do with kids, right?_

Tony carefully rose to his feet with a slight groan, pulling the kid up with him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, to which the kid responded by slumping over slightly in Tony’s grip.

He walked Peter to the bathroom adjoining the lab, and he wet a hand towel to wipe his face and pressed a paper cup into the kid’s hand for him to rinse his mouth. Peter did so, robotically, and Tony kept a hand wrapped around his upper arm, leading him up to his bedroom when he was done.

When they walked through the bedroom door, Tony paused, glancing around the room for something for the kid to change into.

“You probably want to change your clothes, yeah?” Tony asked, looking down at Peter, who stared ahead and trembled lightly.

The kid didn’t respond, so Tony pushed him into the armchair next to the dresser and pulled a few drawers open, shuffling through the clothes Happy had ordered for the kid until he found a pair of sweats. Tony held them out toward Peter, but when the boy made no move to take them, he hooked the sweats over his arm and leaned down in front of the kid, hands hovering over the top button of his shirt.

“Can I?” Tony asked tentatively. The kid didn’t answer; it seemed as though he hadn’t even heard him. Steeling himself, Tony started to unbutton the shirt, prepared to pull back at the slightest sign of resistance.

Tony froze, the shirt half-unbuttoned, and he felt his throat close in horror as he studied Peter’s torso.

The kid’s skinny chest was littered with bruises and scabbed-over cuts, the damage extending to his shoulders, and from what Tony could see, his upper back as well.

_What kind of monster would do this…?_

“What happened to you, kid?” Tony asked, a burning desire to strangle whoever had done this battling his immediate need to help the kid, to somehow fix this.

The kid glanced down at the bruises coloring his torso. Some of his faculties seemed to return to him, and he stiffened, pulling away.

Suddenly, Peter’s behavior in the lab made a sickening sort of sense. The kid had looked terrified as Tony walked towards him, and his eyes had been trained on Tony’s hands. On the wrench clutched in Tony’s hand.

Had the kid thought he would…?

_Keep calm, keep calm. Don’t terrify the kid any more than you already have._

“Did- did someone hurt you?” Tony asked, his voice shaking slightly with the effort of masking his anger.

Peter tensed even further, hunching his shoulders in a manner that had to be painful.

Before this moment, Tony had never imagined he could feel more helpless than he had on the day the word had turned to dust before his eyes. But now, his hands hovering over the bared, bruised shoulders of a frightened child, he had never felt more out of his depth.

The kid unbuttoned the rest of his shirt with shaking fingers and pulled the sweatshirt over his head, cringing away from Tony’s attempts to help.

“Kid, can you look at me?” Tony asked, a heavy, choked feeling clogging his throat.

Surprisingly, the kid looked up to meet Tony’s eyes.

“Who did this to you?”

“I- I can’t- I don’t- Please don’t make me tell-” The kid was breathing quickly again, too quickly, and he jumped when Tony reached forward to wrap his hands around Peter’s. The kid’s hands were freezing.

“It’s okay, kid, it’s okay,” Tony said, in a tone he hoped was reassuring. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

The kid continued to tremble under Tony’s hands.

“Let’s just- let’s get you into bed, okay?” Tony suggested, releasing the kid’s hands.

Peter nodded, eyes on the floor, and Tony stood back while he pulled himself to his feet, pushing down on the armrests for support. Tony stepped back as the kid kicked off his shoes and climbed under the covers, still wearing his jeans. He curled up with his knees to his chest, his eyes not leaving Tony. 

Tony clasped his hands, a part of him wanting to reach out to the kid, to offer him some sort of comfort, but he knew better than to try. He wasn’t even sure he knew how.

The kid watched him warily until Tony backed out of the room, and he left the door open a crack when he pulled it closed behind him.

  



	4. It's Dark Inside

Peter awoke slowly the next morning, the room gradually coming into focus as he blinked the sleep-induced haziness from his eyes. He heaved himself up into a sitting position, the events of the previous day coming back to him.

It made him want to curl up somewhere and die.

He’d freaked out, thrown up, Mr. Stark had _wiped his face_, and there had been tears, and trembling and-

Peter jerked back, startled, when FRIDAY’s cool voice rang out.

“Good morning, Peter. Boss has instructed me to direct you to the kitchen when you’re ready.”

Well, he’d have to face the man eventually.

Peter dressed quickly, fingers tripping over themselves in his haste to avoid keeping Mr. Stark waiting. As promised, FRIDAY helped him navigate to the kitchen, where he paused anxiously by the doorway. Mr. Stark’s back was to him, facing the coffee machine, which made a gentle _whirring_ sound as the coffee brewed.

“Peter has arrived, boss,” said FRIDAY, before he could back away.

Mr. Stark swung around. 

“Morning, kid,” he said with a crooked grin, which quickly faded as his eyes scanned Peter up and down. It made him feel as though he were being X-rayed.

“Good morning,” Peter mumbled, rubbing at a spot on the toe of his shoe with the other foot.

“Are you, uh, feeling better?” Mr. Stark asked, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Peter flushed. “Yeah, I- I’m fine.” 

“Sit down, kid.” Mr. Stark gestured towards the large island beside the counter, and Peter pulled himself onto one of the sleek black stools, swiveling it sideways to keep the man within his field of vision.

“So, we got coffee, tea- wait, you’re fourteen, you don’t drink coffee. Do you like hot chocolate? Everyone likes hot chocolate. If I weren’t addicted to caffeine, I’d be drinking it all day...”

Peter nodded, trying not to stare too obviously at the expensive appliances that lined the walls and shelves. The room was _huge_; most of May and Ben’s apartment could have fit inside of it, and it was all so...shiny, as though the kitchen had come to life straight out of one of Ben’s Better Homes and Gardens magazines that he’d always pretended he didn’t read.

Mr. Stark turned around and reached up to grab a packet from one of the top cabinets, and Peter could see that it was the expensive brand of hot chocolate, the kind he’d always wanted but had known better than to ask for. He watched absentmindedly as Mr. Stark prepared the drink, straightening up when the man clunked a mug in front of him and sat on a stool opposite him, coffee in hand. Peter took a sip; it was as good as he’d always imagined when he’d seen it at the supermarket, and Mr. Stark had even added a few marshmallows. Mr. Stark sipped his coffee, watching Peter, who kept his eyes on his mug as he drank. Several moments passed before Peter gathered the courage to meet the man’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry about last night, Mr. Stark,” he said, his voice mercifully steady.

The man raised his eyebrows. “For what?”

Was Mr. Stark really going to make him say it? Peter’s face heated.

“For th-throwing up on your floor,” he bit out, the mug in his hand wobbling.

Mr. Stark gave Peter a strange look. “Kid, what- you don’t have to apologize for that. It was probably my fault, anyway, pushing all that pizza on you.” 

Peter stared at him. Mr. Stark looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Listen, kid,” he started. Peter tensed slightly at the purposeful tone. “You were pretty freaked out last night, and I gotta ask.” He gestured vaguely towards Peter’s chest. “What happened there?”

Peter set down his mug, the warmth of it fading with the sensation of an invisible, frozen hand wrapping around his throat. 

“I can’t tell,” he choked. “I can’t. Please.”

Skip had made it perfectly clear what would happen if he told. He couldn’t let MJ get hurt. Not anymore than she already had been.

Mr. Stark looked conflicted. “Kid…” he started.

Peter shook his head wildly.

“All right, all right.” Mr. Stark let out a long exhale. “I’m not gonna force you or anything.” A knot in Peter’s chest loosened. “But I should probably take a better look at those cuts,” the man continued, his jaw tightening. “Some of them looked pretty nasty.”

Mr. Stark looked alarmed when Peter slid backwards on his stool, panicked. “Kid, I’m not gonna- I just need to make sure you’re okay to heal on your own.”

Peter took several shallow breaths.

“C’mon, kid, work with me, here,” Mr. Stark said with a pleading note in his voice.

Peter bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted blood. He finally nodded, trying not to hunch his shoulders. Mr. Stark held up a hand when Peter made to get up.

“You can stay right here, just take off your shirt, okay?”

Peter’s face burned as he pulled off his t-shirt, one of the new ones he’d found in the drawer. He set it on his lap and dropped his hands, fighting the urge to fold them over his chest. Mr. Stark walked around the island and stood next to Peter, leaning forward slightly to assess the damage.

“Jesus, kid,” the man said, his voice hard. His eyes scanned over Peter’s rib cage.

“So, I’m no doctor, but your chest looks fine, cuts are scabbing over okay.”

Peter hated how his hands were shaking.

“Turn around a bit, would you? I wanna take a look at your back.”

Peter obeyed reluctantly, and he pressed his hands between his knees to keep them still.

“Can you, uh, can you lift up your arm?” Peter lifted his arm as little as he could get away with, flinching away when the man’s hand hovered over his side.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mr. Stark said tensely, pulling back. “ I just think you need some antibiotic cream for that cut over there.”

Peter glanced up. “Can I...can I put it on myself?”

“Sure, kid, I’ll just go grab it…”

Mr. Stark stepped out of the room, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging.

_Don’t you dare start crying._

His eyes remained dry, and he tried to keep his face impassive when Mr. Stark came back, tube in hand. He held it out to Peter, who squeezed out a drop and rubbed it over the cut on his side with shaking fingers. Without looking up, he handed it back and clumsily pulled his shirt back on, not caring that the cream rubbed off a bit on the fabric.

“Any injuries I can’t see?” Mr. Stark asked as Peter pulled his arm through the sleeve. Peter shook his head rapidly, his face flaming once again. Mr. Stark looked relieved, and he leaned against the island beside Peter’s stool, watching Peter intently.

“I get that you don’t feel like you can talk,” the man said, his gaze eerily focused. “I know how that works, believe me.” He paused, clenching his jaw before going on. 

_Please don’t make me tell. Please don’t make me tell..._

“Just know that nothing like that is going to happen here, got it?” 

_Oh._

The icy tightness of Peter’s throat eased slightly, and he nodded at his lap. Mr. Stark thankfully dropped the subject and tossed a few waffles into the toaster.

*****

Tony had no idea how to entertain a teenager, but the kid seemed content enough to hang around in the lab. Peter seemed to have some working knowledge of hardware and robotics, and, although he didn’t say much, he explored the contents of the lab with an unmistakable air of cautious excitement.

Tony didn’t get much work done that day (not that he’d been working on anything particularly productive). He was too distracted by the presence of the boy sorting through old computer parts and barely making a sound as he did. Tony halfheartedly fumbled around for a modem cable, his head jerking up when he heard the kid move. He glanced over, but the kid had returned to his prior position, with his head bent over a table and his shoulders tightly curled.

Tony opened his mouth, closing it when he realized he had nothing to say. What was he supposed to say? Sorry you’ve been beaten half to death? Been there, done that? Sorry your parents got dusted?

Tony let out a heavy sigh and turned his head back to the Courier modem he’d had since the nineties, fiddling mindlessly with the cable for longer than he cared to admit, only setting it aside when Peter went to bed (at Tony’s suggestion, which the kid seemed to take as an order). 

“FRIDAY?” Tony called out, rolling his stiff shoulders.

“Yes, boss?”

“Get me everything you have on Peter Parker.”

FRIDAY was nothing if not efficient (he’d created her, after all), and she soon compiled a detailed folder of documents that contained all relevant (and some extraneous) information, which hovered in front of him on the holographic interface. He reached up to slide the files out of the translucent folder.

Peter Parker had turned fourteen earlier in the month, and he’d graduated middle school in June, despite all the confusion and dysfunction the world has faced after the Snap. As the kid had mentioned, he’d been accepted to Midtown School of Science and Technology back in November, and all it took was a quick few swipes to confirm his attendance.

It also surfaced that Peter had been raised by his paternal uncle and aunt after his parents (former SHIELD agents) had died in a plane crash. The kid’s aunt and uncle had been dusted, and soon after, he’d become one of Steven “Skip” Westcott’s four foster children, along with fourteen-year-old Michelle Jones, and siblings Ellie and Aaron Greenberg, seven and five years old, respectively.

Westcott’s record was frustratingly clean. On paper, he was a prime candidate for fostering, having worked extensively with teens at risk for over a decade. He’d apparently offered to take in as many children as he had room for, and CPS had undoubtedly jumped to accept. With the kid refusing to talk, Tony had no way of knowing if Westcott had been the one to hurt him. It was possible, even likely, but without more information, what could Tony do? The kid might have been hurt outside the home, and if Tony accused an innocent man, it would just result in more children being displaced.

But why had Peter been sent away? Not even FRIDAY could seem to come up with any useful information regarding the kid’s change in guardianship. All Tony could find was that Westcott had informed CPS that he could no longer house Peter Parker, and they’d been left scrambling to find the kid a new placement. 

He closed the file with a flick of his finger, turning back to his desk. 

_I am so in over my head with this kid._

It wasn’t that the kid was difficult; he was anything but, really. It was that he’d obviously been hurt and needed someone to be there for him. He needed...hugs, and shit. Tony was the last person anyone should nominate for the job. Pepper had been good at hugs. But Pepper was gone.

Tony turned back to his latest, pointless project, his hands moving on autopilot as his mind continued to race. His movements eventually slowed as he slumped forward and drifted off, the side of his head pressed against the table.

He awoke some time later to FRIDAY’s cool voice. 

“Boss, Peter appears to be in distress.”

Tony shot up, the tools on his desk rattling with the movement. “What’s going- what’s wrong with him?” he asked, mind hazy with sleep and his heart thudding.

“His heart rate has increased by eighty-six percent, and his breathing has become labored.”

Tony scrambled to his feet and stumbled over to the elevator, ignoring the twinge in his back from sleeping at his desk. Pepper had always chastised him for that.

*****

Peter had never liked the dark. He’d slept with a night light in his old room back home with May and Ben, and while he knew it was childish, his aunt and uncle had never let him feel ashamed.

“I still hold my breath whenever I’m in an elevator,” Ben had said, clapping Peter on the shoulder. “And your dad, well, he would’ve clocked me for saying it, but he used to scream bloody murder whenever he saw a spider.” Peter had giggled at that. Ben had reached for his other shoulder and leaned down so he was at eye-level with Peter. “Everyone’s afraid of something, and there’s no shame in being like everyone else.”

But he didn’t have a night light anymore, not when he’d lived with Skip, and not in his room at Stark Tower. There was no way on _earth_ he would admit to Mr. Stark that he still pulled the blanket over his head at night when the room got too dark.

So, that night found Peter jolting awake with a scream tearing at his throat, blankets tangled around him. He shoved a pillow into his face and let his frightened tears soak the cover, hands trembling so hard that the pillow vibrated. It fell from his hands when his door was flung open and the light switched on, and through blurred eyes, Peter saw Mr. Stark, hair tousled and shirt wrinkled, hurry into the room and hover next to his bed.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, tears still leaking out.

“You okay, kid?” Mr. Stark asked in a near whisper. Peter hugged his arms against his chest and shook his head, eyes still closed.

He could still see Ben’s face, which wasn’t really his face because it had glared at him in a way that Ben would never have done, and then he’d morphed into Skip, who kept whispering threats of everything he would do if Peter told, and MJ was there, her eyes dark and accusing because he’d _left her all alone_. And then Mr. Stark had appeared, his expression flat and disinterested, pointing at the door for Peter to leave and never come back.

But now Peter was awake, and Mr. Stark was still there, but his face held only concern and exhaustion, and he was asking over and over if Peter was okay. Peter took a shuddering breath and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” he mumbled, sniffling.

“Don’t apologize, kid,” Mr. Stark said hoarsely. “Just- do you need...anything?”

Peter sniffed again and shrugged jerkily.

Mr. Stark huffed a breath. “Okay. Do you want a drink? I can get you a drink.”

Peter nodded, wiping his eyes again, and the man stood up, looking relieved. “‘’Kay, I’ll be back in a second.”

Peter watched him leave the room, his breaths slowly evening out. Just a dream. It was just a dream. Mr. Stark was there, and he wasn’t angry, and Skip...well...for the moment, he wasn’t a problem. A part of Peter wished he could tell Mr. Stark everything, but the memory of Skip growling into his ear what would happen if he told, stale breath heating the side of Peter’s face, was clear as day.

Mr. Stark walked back in soon after, water sloshing from the overfilled glass in his hand. Peter took it with shaking hands, realizing only then how thirsty he was. He coughed when a sip went down the wrong way and tried not to flinch when Mr. Stark leaned over to pat him on the back.

“Slow down, there, buddy. Water’s not going anywhere.”

“Sorry,” Peter whispered, forcing back another cough.

“Don’t be sorry, kid,” Mr. Stark said with a sigh. “You going to apologize for breathing, next?”

Peter pressed his lips shut and clenched his hand around the glass. Now that the panic had passed, he felt a growing sense of embarrassment that made his face feel hot and his throat tight.

_I can’t believe I freaked out on him again. He’s gonna get sick of me and kick me out like Skip did and then they’ll send me back to Skip because there’s no one else to take me and he’ll be so angry-_

“Kid?”

Peter came back to himself with the sensation of a hand shaking his shoulder. His heart was pounding again, almost as hard as it had when he’d woken up. He looked up at Mr. Stark, trying to steady his breaths.

“Better?”

Peter nodded, his face flaming.

They both sat quietly for several moments, Mr. Stark sitting gingerly at the edge of the bed. Peter gradually calmed with the feeling of Mr. Stark’s hand on his shoulder, the warmth of it permeating the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“Think you can go back to sleep?” Mr. Stark asked in a low tone.

“Yes- yes, I’m fine. You can- you don’t have to stay,” Peter replied, looking at his lap.

The man squeezed his shoulder before standing, and he turned to walk towards the door as Peter slumped back against his pillow. However, he shot up when Mr. Stark got to the doorway and reached for the light switch.

“Please, can you- can you leave it on?” Peter asked, hesitant and desperate all at once. Mr. Stark gave him a long look.

“Sure, kid.”

He also left the door half-open, and, somehow, Peter managed to fall back asleep with the ceiling light shining and the hallway light peeking through the door. And the next night, when Peter got ready for bed, he found a brand new lamp propped up on his bedside table.

  



	5. Nothing to Show

Mr. Stark wasn’t in the kitchen when Peter came down for breakfast. 

He stood hesitantly by the doorway for a few moments, shuffling his feet, before his growling stomach sent him to the fridge. Trying to ignore the fear that Mr. Stark would be angry with him, Peter grabbed the milk from the fridge and reached for the cereal. He scarfed it down quickly, prepared to jump out of his seat at any moment if Mr. Stark came in. 

The man didn’t show up, so Peter washed his dishes carefully and put everything away, trying his hardest to make it seem as though he hadn’t been there at all.

But what was he supposed to do now?

After several moments of consideration, Peter approached the lab and peeked through the glass door to see Mr. Stark hunched over a table.

“FRIDAY?” Peter said in a near whisper. “Can I...can I come in?”

FRIDAY responded instantly. “Boss, Peter is requesting entry to the lab.”

“Damn it,” Mr. Stark said loudly. “Yeah, let him in…”

Peter shrunk back when the doors slid open and Mr. Stark hurried towards him. The man looked disheveled, shirt wrinkled and hair tousled, the shadows beneath his eyes indicating a sleepless night.

“Come in, kid, sorry, I’ve been in here all night, lost track of time…” 

Somewhat calmed, Peter followed the man inside.

“So, uh...you sleep okay?” Mr. Stark asked, fumbling around for a chair. He pushed it towards Peter.

“Yeah,” Peter said softly, sitting down.

“No...nightmares, or anything?” The man dropped into a seat.

Peter felt his face heat, and he shook his head.

“Good, that’s good.”

There was an awkward pause, and Peter stared resolutely at his fingernails. After a moment, he took a breath and glanced up cautiously.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Hm?” the man replied, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Is it okay that I- that I took food from the kitchen?”

Peter was pretty sure he’d left the kitchen spotless, but Mr. Stark almost certainly had cameras everywhere, what if he didn’t want Peter taking things without asking, what if-

“Yeah, why not?” Mr. Stark replied, squinting at him.

Peter looked down, chewing his lip.

“Kid, you can take anything you want, you don’t have to ask.” He stared at Peter again, watching as Peter picked at the skin around his nails.

“Ki- Peter?” he started again, cautiously. “I’m gonna assume that you got fed, where you were living before. That you weren’t subsisting on scraps picked out of the trash, or-”

“No,” said Peter quickly, flushing. “I mean, yeah, I got fed and everything.” Peter swallowed. “But Sk- he, uh, told us exactly what we were allowed to take, so I wasn’t- wasn’t sure…”

“Okay, got it.” Mr Stark clapped Peter on the shoulder. “So, now you know you can take whatever you want, sound good?” 

Peter let out a breath and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t thank me, kid, it’s just food.”

The man turned back to his work, and he seemed intently focused on it, so Peter kept quiet and moved over to his table to busy himself with the miniature robot he had been designing. After some time, Peter glanced up at the sound of Mr. Stark’s phone breaking the near silence in the room. He couldn’t quite make out Mr. Stark’s end of the conversation, but he startled when he heard his name come up in the conversation.

When Mr. Stark ended the call, he waved Peter over. “Hey, kid, my buddy wants to stop over, and he’d like to meet you. Up for some company?”

“Um, o-okay, sure,” said Peter, his throat feeling tight.

“Cool. He’ll be around in about an hour.”

Peter walked back to his table, heart thudding inexplicably. He tried to focus on his robot design, pencil sliding in his sweaty palm, but he couldn’t regain the momentum he’d previously had.

_What if Mr. Stark’s friend hates me? What if I make him mad? What if he tells Mr. Stark not to keep me?_

The thoughts kept running in circles as Peter fiddled with the tools on his table. Maybe he was being paranoid, maybe he was worried for nothing. But Skip had been friendly, at first, although something had always seemed a bit off, and MJ had always been wary of him. God, he wished so badly that she was here with him…

Peter nearly knocked over a tin of nails when he heard the lab doors slide open.

“Hey, kid, get over here,” Mr. Stark called out. Peter scrambled over on shaky knees and stared up, a bit awed, at who he recognized as Colonel Rhodes, or War Machine.

“Nice to meet you, Peter,” Colonel Rhodes said with a smile, reaching out to grip Peter’s hand in a firm handshake. 

“You too, Mr., uh, Colonel Rhodes.”

“Just Rhodey is fine,” the man said, letting go of Peter’s hand.

“Yes, sir,” Peter whispered.

Mr. Stark let out a short laugh behind him. “Fan of War Machine, are you?”

“Well, I, um, I just-” Peter stuttered, his face heating.

“Well, I have to say I’m honored to meet the guy that managed to drag Tony out of his lab,” Rhodey said with a grin. “I don’t think this idiot left this room for months before you came here.”

“Jeez, Rhodey, don’t embarrass me in front of the new kid,” Mr. Stark protested. “He still thinks I’m cool.” 

Rhodey, smiled, rolling his eyes. “Oh, he’ll learn.” He pointedly ignored Mr. Stark’s affronted look and turned towards Peter, who was watching their exchange with wide eyes. “So, what are you working on, Peter?” 

Something about Rhodey’s calm demeanor eased the anxiety that had been steadily building since Mr. Stark had mentioned his visit. Peter forcibly straightened his back and led the man over to his table to explain his design, his words emerging haltingly.

“Tony, did you see what this kid is working on?” Rhodey said, turning Peter’s design sketch in his hands.

“Can’t say I have.” Mr. Stark approached the table to skim his eyes over its contents.

Peter wanted to crawl into a hole. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the floor while the two men examined his work. He twitched and looked up when Mr. Stark tapped him on the shoulder.

“This is pretty impressive, kid,” he said. “What’s with all the modesty? Own your brilliance. Always worked for me.”

Peter couldn’t hold back a shy smile, and his shoulders relaxed.

*****

Once the kid was out of earshot, Tony dropped into his seat and arched his back with a groan.

“Up all night again, Tony?” Rhodey asked disapprovingly.

“Yeah, so?”

Rhodey raised his eyebrows. “You have a kid to look after, Tones, you can’t just stay awake all night and crash sporadically during the day.”

“The kid’s not five,” Tony shot back, rolling his neck and wincing as it cracked. “And he’s well-behaved. Too much so, if you ask me. Like a little...robot child.”

“I was actually going to ask about that,” said Rhodey, lowering himself onto a chair. “He seems a bit timid.”

Tony let out a heavy sigh and glanced back at Peter. “Can’t say for sure, but I’m guessing he was treated pretty badly at his previous foster home.”

Rhodey narrowed his eyes.

“I found the kid covered in bruises, first day he was here,” said Tony, rubbing his wrist. “He wouldn’t tell me where he got them. Nearly had a conniption when I asked.” A heavy, sickening feeling of guilt and anger settled in his chest and constricted his lungs.

Rhodey straightened up, his eyes darkening. “Jesus… And he wouldn’t say anything? Not even when you asked direct questions?”

“Nope.” Tony stood up and began to pace aimlessly.“I get the feeling he was intimidated into keeping his mouth shut.”

Rhodey’s jaw tightened. “This might be worth investigating,” he said. “I’m not sure if there are other kids living in that house, but if there are-”

“There are,” Tony cut in, feeling cold air creeping into his chest. “I didn’t want to bang down CPS's door at the time, not without any proof.” Tony drew in a sharp breath. “But, the more time I spend with the kid, the more screamingly obvious it is that he…”

“I’ll look into it,” Rhodey said firmly, getting to his feet. “Get me the guy’s name, and I’ll send someone to interview the kids.”

*****

“You work fast,” said Tony, surprised, when Rhodey called him back the next afternoon.

“I feel responsible,” Rhodey admitted, sounding tinny over the line. His voice crackled for a moment. “Sorry, bad reception area, gimme a second-”

Tony heard more crackling and several muffled voices before Rhodey spoke again, his voice clearer. “I’m the one who initiated the kid’s guardianship transfer, so if there are any other issues-”

“Anything?” Tony cut it.

“Nothing,” Rhodey said, sounding conflicted. “By all reports, Steven Westcott is a perfectly competent guardian, the kids seem healthy, not a mark on any of them.”

“He’s lying,” Tony said through gritted teeth. “The kids are lying. He intimidated them into keeping their mouths shut. It’s not hard to do.”

“That could very well be the case,” said Rhodey carefully. “But there’s nothing anyone can do without any proof.”

Tony let out a wordless grunt, the throbbing in his temples building steadily.

“Another thing, Tony.” Rhodey paused. “Maria Hill has been trying to contact you.”

Tony squinted. “Has she? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Not unlikely, considering you pretty much took yourself off the grid and changed all your numbers.”

Tony was silent.

“Tony,” Rhodey said with a sigh. “You know what this is about.”

Tony slammed his free hand down on the table, overtaken by a sudden, burning anger.

“What, she wants to get the old band back together? Is that it? Because that’s not. Going. To happen.”

“Tony, she only-”

“Cap’s gone,” Tony said, his voice hard and choked. “Bruce is gone. Clint is shooting people in Japan. Nat is AWOL. I don’t even know if Thor is alive. There’s nothing left, no one left. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. So don’t tell _me_-”

“Tony, stop it.”

Tony snapped his mouth shut, his chest heaving.

“Just contact her, Tony.”

“I don’t need fucking Fury two-point-oh breathing down my neck. I am done with this. Done.”

“Tony-”

“No. I’m done.”

He ended the call.

Tony didn’t sleep much that night. He did go up to bed, Rhodey’s voice ringing in his ears, but when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Pepper. 

He dragged himself out of bed around seven, downing two cups of coffee in rapid succession. The kid came into the kitchen shortly after, scrawny and hesitant as always, and something about his demeanor made Tony want to throw something. It was his failure that had left this kid without parents, and that had caused him to be hurt the way he was. He’d probably been a happy, confident kid before everything, but now, the kid was likely a shadow of who he’d once been, jumping at sudden noises and shrinking away from the slightest suggestion of anger.

Tony didn’t want to see it.

“M-Mr. Stark, can- can I-?”

“Take whatever you want,” Tony said shortly. “I already said you could, didn’t I?”

The boy eyed him for a moment, and he then reached for the cereal, standing on his toes. He set his bowl on the table and ate almost soundlessly, sitting near the edge of his seat with his shoulders hunched. Tony downed a third, lukewarm cup of coffee in three gulps, wincing at the bitterness. He raised his eyebrows when he noticed the kid staring, but the boy didn’t say anything and continued to watch him intently.

“What? What, kid?” Tony said, trying very hard not to snap. He must not have succeeded, because the kid shrunk back a little.

“N-n-nothing,” Peter said, his voice a near whisper.

Tony clenched his fists under the table.

“Kid, it’s obviously something, so just tell me what it is, for Christ’s sake.”

Tony knew he should stop. He knew he was sleep-deprived and taking it out on the kid, and the last thing the boy needed was Tony unloading his issues on him. But his frustration felt like an oncoming collision that he could do nothing to stop, and the kid was still shrinking from him, his eyes wary and too big for his face.

“What, dammit!”

Peter flinched hard, dropping his spoon on the floor with a _clang_.

“I’m sorry,” the kid said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, p-please don’t-”

_Shit. Shit. You goddamn idiot._

Tony squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and he forced himself, with everything he had, to relax his jaw and loosen his shoulders. He opened his eyes to find the kid still sitting in his seat with a white-knuckled grip around the armrests, his eyes tracking Tony’s movements, pale-faced and tight-lipped.

“Kid, I’m sorry,” Tony breathed out. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I shouldn’t have snapped.”

The kid didn’t look reassured; his lower lip quivered slightly while his eyes darted back and forth.

“I didn’t mean to-” Peter started in a small, scared voice.

“No, kid,” Tony cut in. “You didn’t do anything. You don’t need to apologize. I’m just- “

Tony slumped in his seat, and the words seemed to come without volition.

“To be honest, I haven’t slept a full night in...god, I don’t know how long, and I’ve been in this building alone for months-” Tony cut himself off, a bit disturbed at how much he’d blurted out. The kid didn’t need to hear this. He looked carefully at Peter, who, oddly enough, seemed calmer. He’d lost the terrified-rabbit look he’d had going on, and he’d relinquished his grip on the armrests.

“I-I’m sorry you’re not sleeping,” Peter said, peeking up at Tony through his lashes. “I know it sucks, and it can make people act… differently, sometimes.”

Tony offered the kid a pained smile, and Peter smiled back hesitantly.

“You’re a smart kid, bud,” Tony said, sighing. “I can be an asshole a lot of the time, but just know that I wouldn’t- wouldn’t hurt you, or-”

Peter looked at his lap.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure, at first, and when you yelled, I- I thought maybe...but I know you wouldn’t really. I can tell.”

“Can you?” Tony asked, tilting his head.

Peter nodded, raising his head to meet Tony’s eyes. “My uncle Ben always said that I was a good judge of character, and I can see that you’re- that you’re a good person.”

“You might be giving me too much credit,” Tony said wryly. “I’ve done some pretty sh-crappy things in my time.”

“Everybody has, though,” Peter said, undaunted. “I think- I think the difference is whether you feel sorry about it after.”

“Jeez, kid, are you sure you’re only fourteen?” 

Peter smiled bashfully. “I think fourteen is pretty old.”

Tony chuckled, something breaking loose and free in his chest. 

“When you get to be my age, kid, you’re gonna look back at this and roll your eyes so hard.”

Peter grinned. “Well, I guess when you’re, like, seventy, everyone else seems young in comparison.”

Tony threw the kid a look of exaggerated shock. “How dare you? I’m only forty-nine. Young and spry as a-”

“Well, when you get to be as young as me, you’re gonna look back at this and roll your eyes so hard,” the kid quipped, grinning wider.

Tony burst out laughing.

  



	6. Not the Only One

“All I’m saying is, there’s a wrong and right way to make fettuccine, and the jury’s still out on this one.”

Peter glanced up from his lasagna. “My Aunt May could make lasagna as good as this,” he said through a mouthful. “Better, even.”

“Aunt May must have been some chef,” said Mr. Stark, twirling the long strings of pasta around his fork. “Not sure about this fettuccine, but the lasagna here is the best I’ve tasted.”

“So why didn’t you get it?’ Peter asked as he cut off another piece with his fork.

“Adventurous mood, I guess. Bad idea, don’t try it.”

Peter grinned as he took a bite. He was sitting across from Mr. Stark at an upper-crust Italian restaurant they’d stopped at for lunch while out shopping for Peter’s school supplies. They could have ordered his things, or had Mr. Hogan pick them up, but they’d both been going a little stir-crazy. So here they were, the sole customers at the fanciest restaurant Peter had ever even looked at, a week before the start of school, debating the merits of Italian dishes.

“Thing is, Aunt May was usually the worst cook,” said Peter.

“Really?” Mr. Stark asked with raised eyebrows.

Peter nodded, and he swallowed before replying. “Uncle Ben did most of the cooking. But the lasagna was a family recipe, so only she could make it.”

Peter took another bite. This lasagna really wasn’t half-bad, but Aunt May...

Peter’s chest ached at the thought of her. He’d never imagined he could miss the sound of the smoke detector blaring as May once again burned the toast. Or water. She’d even burned water, once. Uncle Ben had always had to turn off the alarm himself; neither May nor Peter had been tall enough to reach. 

It had been a near-weekly ordeal, and it had always ended in the exact same argument, with Ben telling May to leave the kitchen to him, and May snapping that he should get a smoke detector that wasn’t so damn responsive. It had always annoyed Peter, but now it made him wish more than anything to see them again, to hug them both tightly and tell them he loved them in case they didn’t know.

Appetite gone, Peter set his fork aside and took a gulp of water, just to have something to do with his hands. His eyes began to sting.

“Bathroom,” he said quickly, hurrying off before Mr. Stark could see his face. 

Once locked in a stall, he pressed his palms over his face and let the tears come. His entire body shook with sobs, and every time he tried to stop, another wave of tears would overtake him. He gave up trying and sat on the toilet lid, elbows digging into his thighs as he wept into his hands.

He must have been crying for a long time, because he heard a rap on the door and Mr. Stark’s voice.

“Kid, you okay in there?”

Peter jumped, his heart thudding, and he took several hitching breaths before responding. “Yeah, I-I’m fine. C-coming out in a second.”

He wiped his face with toilet paper as well as he could, but there would be no hiding the evidence of his latest breakdown. Steeling himself, he unlocked the door and pushed it open to find Mr. Stark waiting outside.

Peter stared at his shoes, humiliated.

“Kid, I-” Mr. Stark broke off with a heavy sigh. “Look at me, would you?” 

Peter looked up reluctantly at Mr. Stark, who leaned uncomfortably against the tiled wall.

“Listen, I’m no good at this sort of thing. This...comforting business.”

Peter flushed. “I don’t need-”

“Kid.”

Peter closed his mouth.

“You’re allowed to feel...sad about things,” Mr. Stark said, trapping Peter in his gaze. “We all do. Just about everyone on this planet, in this universe, even, has lost people.”

Peter glanced back at the floor.

“My point is, you’re not the only one to break down in a bathroom stall, and you don’t need to be embarrassed about it.”

Peter took a startled breath. “O-okay,” he said thickly.

“Good,” said Mr. Stark. He made an aborted hand motion and dropped his arm to his side. “So, you wanna head out? Pick up your school things?”

“Yes, please,” said Peter, eager for a distraction. He rinsed his face at the sink and dried off with the paper towels Mr. Stark handed to him. He then followed Mr. Stark out of the room, where the man dropped a handful of bills on their table and pulled open the door with a gentle _ringing_ sound.

Back in the car, Mr. Stark fiddled with the radio before settling on Fade to Black by Metallica

“You like classic rock?” Mr. Stark asked, glancing back at the road.

“Sure,” said Peter. “Aunt May listened to it a lot.” He was able to say her name without crying this time.

“Your aunt had good taste.”

“Uncle Ben liked classical music,” Peter offered. “He played the piano.”

“You ever learn?” Mr. Stark asked, glancing over.

Peter shook his head ruefully. “I tried, but I was never any good at it.”

Mr. Stark let out a chuckle. “You remind me of me, kid.”

Peter looked at him, surprised.

“My mother played,” Mr. Stark said, a small smile pulling at his lips. “She had...incredible talent. I inherited none of it.”

“Oh,” said Peter softly. “Is she, uh, is she…?” .

Mr Stark looked back at the road. “She died years ago. My father, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said in a small voice.

“It was a long time ago,” said Mr. Stark, eyes straight ahead.

“I’m still sorry,” said Peter.

Mr. Stark reached over and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, kid.”

A somber mood settled over them as they drove, only amplified by the song lyrics playing softly in the background. Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride, and the mood followed them as they walked through the shopping mall to pick up Peter’s school supplies. Their footsteps echoed across the eerie emptiness of the building that had once bustled with shoppers, reminding Peter the fact that, even after eight months, the world had barely even begun to recover. Many of the shops were dark and empty, or were locked behind metal bars, and the shops that were still open seemed sparse, at least in comparison to what they used to be.

They reached the office supply store, which was more crowded than most, and the quiet chatter of parents and school children seemed to lift the mood. Peter followed Mr. Stark down the aisles, carrying a basket and watching bemusedly as the man tossed in just about every product that could even remotely be used for school. What Peter could possibly do with a pack of one-hundred multi-colored pens, he didn’t know, but he didn’t argue. He did blanch, however, when Mr. Stark tossed in a leather-bound planner that cost upward of seventy dollars. Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, but he put it back on the shelf, and, after a pause, took the now overflowing basket from Peter, who had begun to struggle under its weight. 

“I don’t need all of these, Mr. Stark,” Peter protested, trying to hand back two of the three ridiculously expensive backpacks that the man had shoved at him. Mr Stark rolled his eyes. “Just take them, kid. Backpacks get lost all the time.”

Peter gave up arguing, and they lugged all the stuff back to the car, both of them breathing heavily under the weight.

It took two trips for them to carry everything back up to the penthouse.

“Where’s Happy when I need him,” Mr. Stark grunted as he dumped a stack of books on Peter’s desk.

“Where _is_ Happy?” Peter asked, dropping his bags on the floor of his room.

“Hell if I know,” said Mr. Stark with a shrug. “Off doing...whatever Happy does. I don’t ask questions.”

Peter sorted through his bags, trying to create a semblance of order. Mr. Stark pulled open one of his desk drawers.

“Hey, kid, forgot to mention, these phones are for you.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he took in the drawer full of no less than eight sleek, unbranded phones, likely of Mr. Stark’s creation.

“All of them?” he squeaked.

Mr Stark let out a snorting laugh. “Well, you probably don’t want to carry them all around at once, but take your pick. They’ve all got SIM cards.”

Peter sifted carefully through the phones, his mouth slightly open.

“You’ll catch flies like that, bud.”

Peter flushed, snapping his mouth shut.

“It was a joke, kid.”

“Oh.”

Peter eventually settled on a slim, silver phone that felt light in his hands. He looked up at Mr. Stark shyly, who was surveying the room with his brow wrinkled.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Don’t mention it.”

Mr. Stark straightened up and headed towards the door. “Got some work to do in the lab, so come on down in a bit if you feel like company.”

And he did sometime later, after organizing his new things and packing up one of his new backpacks with the shiny, expensive supplies that Mr. Stark had bought for him. Mr. Stark waved him in, and Peter settled at his usual table, lowering himself into the chair with a sigh. He tried to focus on his robot design, but his mind kept wandering back upstairs, to all the new things Mr. Stark had bought for him. Not only the school supplies, but the clothing, phones, and all the appliances set up in his room.

Peter didn’t deserve all this, not when so many other kids were out there alone, with nothing. Not when little Ellie and Aaron were forced to face the world without their parents, barely old enough to comprehend what it meant. Not when Peter had left MJ behind...and he couldn’t tell, he couldn’t, because-

“Mr. Stark,” Peter called out, suddenly feeling a bit sick. “Can I ask, um, if- if-?”

“What’s up, kid? Come on over here.”

Peter wheeled his chair over to Mr. Stark’s side of the room and parked it in front of the table. Mr. Stark caught his eye, and the directness of his gaze set Peter on edge.

“Are you-” Peter cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you getting paid to- to have me here, and to buy my stuff? ‘Cause it’s really expensive, and-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, kid,” said Mr. Stark, his gaze unfaltering. Peter snapped his mouth shut, fidgeting uneasily.

"You're aware that I'm a literal billionaire, right?"

Peter bit his lip. “But it’s not your responsibility to-”

“Yes, it is,” Mr. Stark said in a sharp voice. 

“Why?” Peter asked, frustrated, his voice echoing loudly in the room. “I know teenagers cost a lot of money, and I take up your time, and you don’t sleep, and-”

“Stop, Peter.”

Peter quieted, watching Mr. Stark carefully, whose eyes looked shadowed. The man exhaled heavily.

“Listen, kid. No, don’t look away,” he said when Peter dropped his gaze. He forced himself to meet the man’s eyes.

“I don’t know who made you think you were an inconvenience, but you’re not,” said Mr. Stark in a hard voice.

Peter tightened his jaw and dropped his gaze to the man’s graphic t-shirt. He could hear Skip’s words echoing in his mind.

_No one wants teenagers. They want fresh-faced little kids without all this...baggage. You’re lucky, both of you._

“Listen, I’m not the most social person in the world. Don't really like people messing around in my lab,” Mr. Stark began, cutting into Peter’s thoughts. “But I have to say, I kinda like having you around.” He gave Peter a slight grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Really?” he asked, doubt clashing with the budding hope that maybe it was true.

Mr. Stark reached over and pushed Peter’s shoulder lightly. “Sure I do. You make my life a lot more interesting.”

Peter looked down, blinking hard. He stared resolutely at the floor for several moments, glancing up when Mr. Stark cleared his throat.

“Why don’t you slide over here and check this out? Maybe we can toss around a few ideas for this update I’m working on." Mr. Stark grabbed the armrest of Peter’s chair and wheeled it closer. He pointed at the blue-tinted hologram hovering over the table. “So, I’m thinking about changing the design of this interface. The hologram is not as responsive to eye-movement as I want it to be…”

They worked well into the evening, stopping only to eat the sandwiches they ordered in for dinner. Mr. Stark’s phone buzzed several times throughout, but at each ring, the man glanced briefly at the screen and turned it face-down.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to answer?” Peter asked, noticing how, each time the phone buzzed, Mr. Stark’s body language grew steadily more agitated.

The man’s shoulders tightened. “No, it wouldn’t,” he said shortly.

Peter bit his lip. “Sor-”

“Don’t, kid.” Mr Stark inhaled through his nose. “It’s just...my traitor of a friend has apparently handed out my number to people who have no business having it.”

Peter furrowed his brow.

“Nothing for you to worry about, bud. Take a look at this over here…”

They worked for a while longer, but then Mr. Stark’s phone started to buzz incessantly, another call coming in barely seconds after the previous one had ended. Mr. Stark groaned, leaning down to thump his forehead on the table before reaching for his phone.

“I gotta take this, it’s Rhodey calling now to harass me about ignoring phone calls.” He handed Peter the touch-pad. “Here, shift the upper screen to the right, would you? I’ll be back in a sec, one way or another...”

The man stepped away from the table to take the call, and Peter couldn’t help but strain to hear snatches of the conversation. It wasn’t difficult, especially when Mr. Stark raised his voice, saying something that sounded like “Hill’ and ‘Cap’.

_Cap? As in Captain America?_

Peter had heard that Captain American had been dusted; the word of the failed battle against Thanos had somehow been spread, even amidst the destruction immediately following the Snap, and the absence of their heroes had made everything seem even more hopeless than it already was. 

_Is Mr. Stark still Iron Man?_ Peter wondered, swiping his finger across the hologram to test the altered screen.

Was there anything left of the world worth saving?

Peter thought of MJ, and of Ellie and Aaron, and how he could only hope that they were okay. He thought of Mr. Delmar, and how dead his eyes looked now that his daughter was gone. He thought of all the missing teachers at school the previous year, but how it didn’t seem to make a difference because so many students were gone. Peter could do nothing to help any of them; he was useless, helpless to do anything but keep quiet for fear of making things worse.

But they were all worth saving. Mr. Stark was right; Peter wasn’t the only one who’d been left behind. And Peter knew that if he had the power to help them, to change even one small thing, he’d be there in a heartbeat.

Because if he didn’t, and bad things happened, they would happen because of him.

  



	7. Shoulders Back

“Got your bag, Pete? What about your gym clothes? And your phone, don’t forget your phone.” 

Mr. Stark had made a mess of the kitchen, knocking over half a dozen eggs while attempting to make an omelette, and he was crouched down on the floor, mopping up the yolks and talking over his shoulder. Peter hovered awkwardly behind him, backpack dangling over his shoulder, unsure if he should offer to help.

“I got it, Mr. Stark.”

“Did you have food?” Mr. Stark asked, deftly tossing the wet wad of paper towels into the garbage can several feet away.

“I get lunch at school,” said Peter, pulling his backpack more evenly over his shoulders. Mr. Stark stood up with a groan and limped over to the pantry.

“You still need snacks, though, don’t you?” Mr. Stark grabbed a handful of granola bars and threw them in Peter’s direction, where they promptly slipped through his outstretched hands and onto the floor. “Those school lunches suck ass.”

Peter let out a snort, biting his lips to hold back a laugh, while Mr. Stark continued sifting through the shelves haphazardly.

“And gummy worms, you like gummy worms, and...”

“What are you-” Peter held his arms up against his face as he was bombarded with snacks that Mr. Stark tossed over his shoulder one by one, some of them smacking into his chest before sliding to the floor.

“Mr. Stark, I don’t need all this,” Peter said through barely suppressed giggles, lowering his hands cautiously.

Mr. Stark turned around and glanced sheepishly at the pile of snacks at Peter’s feet. “I see what you mean. Just grab the ones you want, and I’ll put the rest away later. Or someone will, probably. Dum-E could use some exercise.”

Peter knelt down and shoved a few snacks into his bag, grabbing the waffle Mr. Stark pressed into his free hand and scarfing it down without looking.

“Want a drink before you go?” Mr. Stark asked, sifting through the coffee cabinet.

“Can I have coffee?” Peter asked hopefully. “It’s the first day of school…”

“Not a chance, bud,” said Mr. Stark, reaching for a packet of hot chocolate. “It’ll stunt your growth.”

“What, like yours?” Peter muttered.

Mr. Stark swung around, staring at Peter with his mouth slightly open. “You little shit…”

Peter felt a momentary jolt of fear as Mr. Stark approached him menacingly, but the fear drained away when he noticed the playful glint in the man’s eyes, reminiscent of Uncle Ben when he’d pretended to be mad at Peter and chased him around the house until they both collapsed into breathless, laughing messes-

Peter yelped when Mr. Stark grabbed him into a headlock and scrubbed a hand over his carefully groomed hair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Peter panted through his giggles, unsuccessfully trying to squirm out of Mr. Stark’s grip.

“Why are you sorry?” the man asked, feigning sternness, as he continued to mess up Peter’s hair.

“I’m sorry I called you short! You’re not short! You’re...perfectly average-sized” he squeaked, flailing his arms uselessly.

“Nope, still not good enough,” Mr. Stark said teasingly, poking Peter in the ribs and inducing another spasm of laughter.

“Okay, okay, you’re tall! You’re the tallest person I’ve ever met!”

“Better.”

Mr. Stark finally released him, and Peter straightened up, breathing hard, and he tried to scowl while smoothing a hand over his hair.

“My hair’s all messed up,” Peter complained, snatching the mug of hot chocolate that Mr. Stark held out to him. 

“It’s an improvement, in my opinion,” the man said with a smirk.

“Your opinion sucks,” said Peter, giving up on his hair and hopping onto a stool to sip his drink.

“You really want to test me right now, kid?” Mr. Stark asked, raising his eyebrows.

Peter clutched the mug to his chest and slid backwards. “No! No, I’m sorry!”

Mr. Stark chuckled, stepping back and holding up his hands. “All right, all right, I’m just messing with you.”

Peter drained his mug and shrugged on his backpack, a smile still playing at his lips.

“Wait, before you go…”

Peter paused by the doorway as Mr. Stark walked over and pressed no less than four hundred dollar bills into his hand. His mouth dropped open.

“Mr. Stark, I can’t- this is too much,” he said anxiously, trying to hand the money back.

Mr. Stark shook his head. “Just take it, kid.”

“I can’t,” Peter said, holding the bills with the tips of his fingers as though they burned to the touch. “It’s just- It’s not...”

Mr. Stark considered him for a moment, then reached into his pocket for his wallet and replaced the bills Peter held out to him with three fifties.

“Is that better?”

Peter nodded uncomfortably.

“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Mr. Stark said, clapping Peter on the shoulder. “Now, get outta here.” He nudged Peter toward the door. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Peter turned his head back, raising his eyebrows. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do?”

Mr. Stark titled his head. “Fair point. Don’t do anything I would do, then.”

“That leaves me with nothing!” Peter mock-glared, and Mr. Stark chuckled and pushed him through the door.

After all their horsing around, Peter was running a bit late. He huffed out an apology to Happy when he burst into the car, and the man just rolled his eyes and waited for Peter to buckle in. 

The drive was long, especially in the early morning traffic, and Peter barely managed to slide into the only available seat in the AP History classroom before the bell rang. His seatmate was a dark-haired, round-faced boy who gave Peter a friendly smile when he sat down. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he quickly turned to face the front of the room when the teacher entered.

History had never been Peter’s favorite subject, but he made a decent effort to take notes, at least at first. The guy next to him seemed to be doing the same, but after several moments, he slipped Peter a scrap of paper under the desk.

_Hey, my name’s Ned. This class sucks. Who are you?_

Peter hid a smile behind his hand and wrote back, pushing the paper towards Ned and straightening up before the teacher could notice.

They didn’t have time to talk when the bell rang, as they had different classes for second period, and Peter had to hurry if he wanted to avoid being late. The building was large and unfamiliar, and Peter felt increasingly anxious as he walked down the rapidly emptying hallways to his next class.

_How the hell am I supposed to make it to class within five minutes? How does everyone else know where to go?_

It sucked. It really, really sucked. There was no one left in the hallway, and he must have made a wrong turn somewhere, because he couldn’t find the AP Literature classroom, and-

Peter breathed a shaky sigh of relief when he finally spotted the correct room number, which he’d apparently walked right past the first time around. He pushed the door open with a trembling hand, and his face burned when everyone turned to look at him.

And- oh, god, the teacher was built like a football player, and he had paused his writing on the board to raise his eyebrows at Peter, looking distinctly disapproving.

“Name?”

“P-P-Peter Parker,” he stammered, tucking his sweaty hands into his sleeves. 

“You’re six minutes late, Parker.”

Peter’s chest tightened, and he tried to breathe evenly, because there was no way he could have a panic attack right here in front of everyone.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at the floor to avoid what he was sure was a sea of mocking glances.

“Sit down, Parker, and come see me after class,” the teacher said flatly, before turning back to the board.

Peter scurried over to an empty seat in the back of the room and kept his head down throughout the class, unable to process anything the teacher was saying.

_Damn it, damn it, I’m such a screw-up. _

He nearly jumped out of his seat when the bell finally rang, and he waited until the classroom emptied before hesitantly approaching the teachers desk. His hands trembled and his breaths felt shallow, and all he wanted right now was Aunt May, except she was gone, and he was just standing there, about to be eviscerated by this mammoth of a teacher-

“Parker.”

Peter glanced up through blurred eyes, blinking rapidly to clear them. He couldn’t seem to stop shaking, though, and it was all he could do to hold himself together while he waited for the teacher to speak. Something in the man’s face shifted after a moment.

“Take a breath, Parker. This isn’t an execution.”

Peter breathed slowly through his nose until his throat loosened enough for him to speak.

“I’m s-sorry, Mr., uh…”

“Winters.”

“Sorry, Mr. Winters, I- I- didn’t mean to be late. I just got lost-”

Mr. Winters held up a hand, and Peter broke off with a faint gasp. The man’s forehead furrowed as he watched Peter through narrowed eyes.

“Mr. Parker, you’re not in trouble, stop looking like you’re headed to the gallows.”

Peter blinked at him. “I’m not?”

Mr. Winters shook his head. “I wanted to make a point that I don’t tolerate tardiness, but it’s becoming obvious to me that it’s not necessary.”

Peter nodded rapidly. “Yes- yes, sir, it won’t happen again.”

Mr. Winters smiled slightly. “Let me write you a pass for your next class. I’m sure this isn’t an experience you want to repeat.”

“Th-thank you,” said Peter, slightly confused but considerably calmer. He turned to go, but Mr. Winters called him back.

“Straighten your shoulders, Parker. You deserve to be here, so act like it. You might even start to believe it.” The man’s gaze was piercing, but he didn’t seem half as intimidating as he had earlier.

“Yes, sir.”

Peter left the classroom, pass in hand, and he didn't hunch his shoulders.

****

Peter didn’t see Ned again until lunch, during which he said timidly at an empty table in the cafeteria, glancing warily at the food on his tray. He jolted upright every time someone walked past him, and he squeezed his hands together to quell the shaking.

_Maybe Mr. Stark could home-school me, this is a big mistake-_

“Hi, Peter.”

Peter’s head shot up to see Ned standing next to his table, smiling hesitantly.

“Can I sit?” Ned asked.

“S-sure, sure.” Peter gestured towards the opposite bench. Ned grinned more widely, sliding into his seat and plunking his tray down on the table.

“God, that history teacher is a hard-ass,” said Ned, picking through the contents of his tray.

“Right? An essay a week? It’s like she thinks she’s the only teacher we have.” Peter took a tentative bite of the mashed potatoes on his tray. They weren’t half bad.

“Who d’you have for Lit.?” Ned asked with his mouth full.

“Winters, you?”

Ned swallowed. “Oh, you’re doing AP? Nice. I kind of suck at it.”

“Not my favorite subject, but I’m okay at it,” Peter said with a shrug. “Are you doing AP for chem next period?”

Ned nodded, and Peter breathed an inner sigh of relief. They walk to the chemistry lab together when lunch was over, and the hallways felt shorter and crowds of upperclassmen seemed less daunting, somehow. They sat beside each other near the front of the room.

The teacher, Mrs. Cobbwell, walked in briskly, and began without preamble. “Who can name the six noble gases?”

A few hands shot up, but Peter shrunk in his chair a little.

“Eugene?” Mrs. Cobbwell addressed the boy sitting next to Ned.

“It’s Flash,” the boy said in a loud voice. “And the answer is Helium, Neon, Argon, Krypton, Xenon, and, um...Radium.”

“That was close, Eugene,” said Mrs. Cobbwell, ignoring the boy’s muttered protest about his name. “But you’re off by one. Anyone else?”

The teacher glanced around the room and seemed to notice Peter shrinking in his seat.

“Peter?”

Peter’s stomach dropped and he felt sweat gathering on his palms. “Um...it’s Radon,” he said, nearly inaudibly.”

“Speak up.” 

Peter felt multiple pairs of eyes pressing in on him, and his hands shook. “It’s Radon, not Radium,” he said, more loudly.

Mrs. Cobbwell nodded in approval. “That’s correct.”

Peter flushed darkly, his heart still pounding, but he smiled a little when Ned nudged him. His grin faded, however, when the kid named Flash turned and glared at him, drawing a finger across his neck like a knife.

Ned rolled his eyes.

“Flash is a jerk,” said Ned, nearly tripping over his laces as they made their way to the algebra classroom. Peter made an aborted arm movement to stop Ned from falling before he straightened up. “He always has been.”

“What, you know him?” Peter asked, dropping his hand to his side.

“Yeah, we were in middle school together,” Ned said with a frown.

“Sucks that you have to spend high school with him, too.”

“Yeah,” Ned agreed. “You’d think, after everything, he would have grown up a little, but _nooo_…”

Both of them grew quiet.

“You know,” said Peter after a moment. “I’m surprised the classes here are as big as they are, considering that so many people are... gone.”

“There was a long wait-list, I guess,” said Ned with a shrug. He suddenly grinned mischievously. “And I know for a fact that Flash was on it.”

Peter turned to him, eyes wide. “No way, man.”

Ned snorted. “Yup. And he’s definitely overcompensating.”

“I guess the Snap worked out for some people,” Peter said darkly.

The rest of the day passed without incident, other than them being assigned an obscene amount of homework. With Ned sharing his afternoon classes, Peter’s earlier anxiety faded. School was school, but Peter was pretty amazed at how well-stocked all the classrooms were. The labs were all filled with shiny, state-of-the-art equipment, and they offered nearly every elective class imaginable. That alone made Peter impatient to get through his freshman year so he could sign up for everything at once, as most of them were only open to Sophomores and older. MJ would have been excited about the art room. Well, her version of excited, anyway.

The familiar black BMW was waiting for Peter outside when school ended, and Ned waved to him cheerfully when he got into the car. He leaned back in his seat, smiling as his phone buzzed with a text from Ned not three seconds after Happy had pulled out of the lot.

“Good day at school, huh?” Happy grunted.

Peter grinned at him. “Pretty good. Other than all the homework.”

Happy sort of huffed.

“Why do they call you Happy, anyway?” Peter asked lightly. “Is smiling even, like, a thing you do?”

Happy rolled his eyes. “It’s meant to be ironic. Not my idea.”

“Oh,” Peter said. “Well, they should’ve called you grumpy.”

Happy glowered at him through the mirror, but Peter could swear his lips twitched.

Mr. Stark was Peter in the kitchen when they got back, drinking out of the tallest coffee cup he’d ever seen, tablet on the table in front of him.

“How was school, buddy?” he said with a grin, reaching over to clap Peter on the shoulder when he collapsed on the adjacent seat, dropping his backpack on the floor next to him. “Meet anyone cool?”

“Yeah,” said Peter, trying not to smile like an idiot. “I met a guy named Ned. He’s pretty nice.”

‘Huh, I’ll have to meet this guy sometime, see who’s turned you into a cheshire cat.”

“Stop it,” said Peter, trying to hold back the dumb grin on his face.

Suddenly ravenous, Peter stood up and went to sort through the snack cabinet, grabbing about four different snack bars and the second pack of gummy worms that Mr. Stark had thrown at him that morning.

“Jeez,” Mr. Stark said, raising his eyebrows as Peter chomped down on his granola bar. “Cool your jets, Homer Simpson.”

Peter threw his half-eaten granola bar at Mr. Stark’s head, who caught it without looking and shoved it into his mouth, lifting his legs to rest them casually on the table. Peter’s phone _pinged_ again, and he pulled it out of his pocket to text back rapidly.

“That’s the phone you’re going with, kid?” Mr. Stark asked with a roll of his eyes. “You have, like, twenty to choose from, and you go with the buggy one? No taste, no taste at all…”

Peter stuck his tongue out and continued texting.

_Twenty phones to choose from…_

Peter’s fingers froze on the screen, an idea forming in his mind.

*****

Peter went to bed early that night, not wanting to be tired at school the next day. No such luck, however, because he woke up at four in the morning sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.

_May’s running shoes were still lying in front of the door, right where Ben had always tripped over them, and Ben had left a half-drunk cup of coffee on top of the piano..._

“Peter?”

Mr. Stark had come into his room and was sitting on the edge of Peter’s bed, his concern only making Peter cry harder.

“Tell me what you need, kid, please.”

Something about the helplessness in the man’s tone made Peter’s tears slow and a burning anger rise, and he grabbed the water glass from his night table and threw it across the room as hard as he could. He watched it shatter against the wall.

“Why is everybody dead?” Peter shouted. He yanked his chemistry book off the table and flung it at dresser, where it hit the floor with a loud _thump_. When he reached for the lamp, Mr. Stark gripped his wrists.

“Peter, stop.”

The anger drained from Peter as quickly as it had come, and he slumped over, pulling weakly at Mr. Stark’s grip.

“Why is everybody dead?” he asked again in a whisper, looking up at Mr. Stark as though he had answers, as though he could tell Peter anything at all. 

Mr. Stark was still holding Peter’s wrists, and, in the dimly glowing lamp light, the man’s eyes looked shiny. Mr. Stark’s face contorted, his grip tightening, and Peter started to cry again, this time almost silently. He leaned over to press his face into Mr. Stark’s upper arm and let his tears soak the man’s sleeve.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way to end the chapter on a sad note, amiright? Just can’t help myself.  
Fun fact: the scene where Peter got lost trying to find his classroom was inspired by my first day of high school, way back in the early days of the iPhone, when I got lost and accidentally walked into an 11th grade classroom instead of my own. Good times. Thankfully, people were nice at my school and I wasn’t unduly traumatized, but, god, the embarrassment...


	8. Two-Way Street

Saturday found Peter sequestered in the lab, struggling to make headway on the same robot he had been working on since his first week at Stark Tower. He wished May and Ben could see this; they’d always been encouraging of Peter’s interest in tech, and to think that he’d gotten the chance to pursue it in _Tony freaking Stark’s lab_, of all places…

Mr. Stark’s generosity made Peter feel all the more guilty for what he was planning behind his back. But not enough to stop. Not enough to overshadow the sickening guilt he felt for leaving MJ behind. He’d _left_ her, and there was little he could do that wouldn’t make things worse. He could do this one thing, though. He couldn’t let MJ get hurt any worse because of him, and this might, in some small way, prevent it from happening.

Peter tried to shove the thoughts to the back of his mind and turned back to the half-built miniature robot, squinting at the motor that was slightly too large for his purposes.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter called out, craning his neck when the man didn’t answer. He froze when he noticed the man standing motionless in front of his desk, hands flat on the surface.

Peter stood up and approached him cautiously.

“Mr. Stark?” he said again, his voice a near whisper. He reached out to lay on tentative hand on the man’s arm, who shifted slightly without looking up.

“Are- are you okay?”

Peter watched him anxiously, afraid to move and half-expecting to be shoved away. But Mr. Stark just let out a deep sigh and slowly lifted his head.

“I’m fine, kid,” he said, in a way that told Peter that he definitely _wasn’t_ fine. The man seemed to take note of Peter’s raised eyebrows, and his lips quirked up at the side into a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Nothing for you to worry about. It’s just...adult stuff.”

“If by adult stuff you mean a bunch of dead people, it’s hardly something I can’t understand,” Peter said sharply.

Mr. Stark’s shoulders tensed at that, and Peter cringed a little, pulling back his hand. But the man didn’t look angry; if anything, his face smoothed over and he let out a chuckle.

“You’re right, kid, even if I wish you weren’t.”

“I- I’m willing to listen, if you want to- to talk about it,” said Peter, forcing himself to meet the man’s eyes. 

Mr. Stark considered Peter for a long moment, his eyes tired and distant, as though the spark that made him _him_, beyond a shadow that merely existed, was miles and miles away, in a place where he longed to bury himself. It was something Peter could see because he knew well how it felt to want to bury himself alive if only it would bring him back to the life he’d lost. 

The man blinked a few times, the motion slow enough as to seem deliberate, and he then closed his eyes and spoke.

“My wife- she- I watched it happen,” said Mr. Stark, his head turned slightly away. “She followed me to space, I didn’t-” Mr. Stark’s voice cracked. “She was pregnant. Six months.”

Peter bit back a gasp, the empathetic stab piercing his chest feeling sharp and all too familiar.

“It was a girl, we were gonna name her Morgan.” 

Mr. Stark rubbed a hand over his face, still leaning over the table with his other hand holding him upright. Peter rested his hand on top of it, and while the man didn’t look at him, he lowered his hand from his face and pressed it on top of Peter’s. After a moment, Mr. Stark sighed heavily and straightened up, pulling his hands back and rolling his shoulders.

“All right, enough emotions for the day,” he said, cracking a tired grin at Peter, who smiled back tentatively. The shadows hadn’t left the man’s eyes, and Peter felt a momentary panic that the man would sink into them completely and leave him all _alone_-

“You know what?” Mr. Stark asked, tone suddenly bright. Too bright. “We’ve been cooped up long enough, let’s go out for a drive, see where it takes us, hm?” 

“O-okay,” Peter said, startled, heart still thudding in his ears.

Mr. Stark clapped Peter on the shoulder and stood up. “Go grab your snowsuit and let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

“It’s almost seventy degrees outside, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, the ache in his chest slowly fading in the face of his amusement.

Mr. Stark reached over and poked Peter in the stomach, who let out a squeak and jerked back. “Don’t contradict me,” said Mr. Stark, feigning sternness, laugh lines around his eyes giving him away.

Peter laughed, his hands hovering protectively over his stomach, and he followed Mr. Stark out of the lab. 

They ended up at another fancy restaurant for dinner; Chinese, this time. The food was good, but Peter barely tasted it, chopsticks clinking against his plate as he shoveled the food into his mouth in repetitive, almost mechanical motions.

“Something on your mind, kid?”

Peter looked up sharply. “Uh, no?”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Mr. Stark. “You’ve got this look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The scheming look. I should know, I wear it all the time.”

“I’m not _scheming_.”

Mr. Stark held up his hands, a bit of fried onion dropping from his chopsticks onto the table. “Hey, scheme away. I’m not judging.”

Peter frowned at him.

“What I’m trying to say is that you can, you know, talk to me, if you’ve got something on your mind.”

Peter’s face softened. “Oh.” He gave Mr. Stark a small smile. “I, um, th-thanks.” He looked at the table. “But nothing’s wrong. Really.”

Nothing that he could say, anyway.

*****

The kid’s eyes were drooping by the time they got home, so Tony sent him off to bed not long after, to which the kid complied, not without a gratuitous amount of grumbling that had Tony suppressing a smile. He hunched over his table and typed with one hand while swiping across the screen rapidly with the other.

A sudden crash had Tony jolting upright and nearly toppling out of his seat. He scrambled upright to find none other than the God of Thunder himself standing casually at the entrance of his lab, hammer dangling from his fist, standing in a pile of broken glass from the door he had evidently forced his way through.

“Holy shit, Thor, what the fuck are you- how did you- I thought you were dead-”

He flailed helplessly when Thor grabbed him into a hug so forceful that he was lifted off of his feet.

“Can’t- breathe-,” Tony gasped, struggling weakly in Thor’s embrace. The man set him down after a moment, gazing at him with a dopey, fond look on his face. He reached out and squeezed Tony’s shoulders with both hands.

“Historically speaking, we have not always seen eye-to-eye, Stark,” Thor said in a booming voice. “But, in this moment, I have never been more pleased to see a person as I am you.”

Tony blinked. “Uh...that’s very touching, Point Break. Nice to see you...not dead.”

Thor shook Tony’s shoulders so hard his teeth rattled. “You as well, my friend. You as well.”

Tony could help but smile even while squirming out of Thor’s painfully tight grip. He patted the guy’s shoulder gingerly. “As thrilled as I am to see you alive and kicking, pal, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Thor’s wide grin faded, his eyes darkening in a manner that presented a chilling reminder of the formidable power that crackled beneath his skin. “Earth is all I truly have left. My home and my people are gone. The few Asgardians that remain have scattered, and there is no place- no home left for me.” His face contorted. “I have come to love this planet, despite its primitive ways, and there are no people more worthy of protection.”

“Very charitable of you.” Tony hopped up to sit on the edge of the table.

“I thought so,” said Thor sagely. He lowered his hammer to the floor with a _thump_. “I have been in contact with SHIELD, who are trying to rebuild a team in the wake of our losses. I offered my services.”

_Is this what Hill has been hounding me about…?_

Tony pulled up his legs and folded them in front of him. “Where have you been until now?” 

Thor clenched his jaw. “I was searching for Thanos, hoping to perhaps find a way to undo what has been done.”

Tony jerked back, nearly tipping off his perch on the table. But Thor’s tired, sorrowful expression extinguished the faint hope he might have harbored. 

“There is no way,” Thor said heavily. “I have searched high and low for answers, and by the time I did find Thanos, I knew there was no chance.”

“How do you know?” Tony asked, closing his eyes.

“The infinity stones have been destroyed, never to be resurfaced.” There was a heavy pause, and Tony opened his eyes again to find Thor squeezing his eyes shut, his hunched posture making him appear so much smaller, so much more human than his normally larger-than-life presence ever allowed.

“So what did you do?” Tony asked numbly. “When you realized that-”

“I found Thanos.” Thor clenched his fists so that they glowed faintly. “And I went for the head.”

Thor went silent after that.

“Um…”

Tony shot around to see a pajama-clad Peter behind the shattered remains of the door, blinking tiredly, curls sticking out every which way.

“What are you doing up, Pete?” Tony asked, sliding off the table.

“I heard a noise-” It was then that Peter noticed Thor standing in the middle of the room beside his legendary hammer.

“What the- how- am I dreaming, or is Thor actually in this room?”

Tony couldn’t hold back a snort, and Thor swept forward to enthusiastically shake Peter’s hand. Tony hurried after him, prepared to intervene at any moment should the man accidentally fling the kid across the room in his enthusiasm.

“I never knew you had an heir, Stark!” Thor said, suddenly jovial. “It is an honor to meet you.” He shook the kid’s hand so forcefully his knees nearly buckled. 

“Uh- I- um I’m not exactly his-” The kid broke off, cheeks red, when Tony stepped over and extricated him from Thor’s grip, wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

“Jeez, Thor, don’t break the kid. He hasn’t even had a chance to finish puberty.”

Peter’s face reddened further, and he curled in on himself, still trapped in Tony’s grip around his shoulders.

Thor reached out to give the kid a studied pat on the head. “It is time I take my leave, my friends. It has been a true pleasure to see you once again. And to meet you, young Stark.”

Thor grabbed his hammer and lifted it over his head, but Tony jumped forward and grabbed onto his arm with both hands.

“The door, Pikachu. Take the door.”

“Ah yes, of course.” He moved towards the door, pausing at doorway to turn his head back. “I’m certain I will see you again, Man of Iron. There is much to be done to recover the losses Midgard has sustained.”

“Well, hold on a damn sec-”

Thor was gone before Tony could finish his sentence. Tony huffed, rolling his eyes and kicking at the broken glass on the floor.

“What is my life?” Tony glanced up to find the Peter staring at the broken doorway, his mouth slightly open.

Tony laughed, the kid’s shell-shocked expression easing the heaviness in his chest. “Awesome?”

“Hell, yeah, that was awesome.” Peter grinned widely, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I mean, Thor? In your lab? In the place I live?”

Tony gave him a glare that was only mostly fake. “You know you live with Iron Man, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s _Thor_.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “All right, back to bed, short stack.”

“There’s no way I can go back to bed after that,” Peter said, stepping back to hop up onto the table.

“To bed, or I’ll carry you.”

Peter shrugged. “I doubt you can carry me that far.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

“No?”

Tony responded by lunging towards Peter and heaving him off the table and over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry.

“Put me down!” Peter yelped, flailing his arms. “I said it wasn’t a challenge!”

Tony ignored him and made his way towards Peter’s room as quickly as he could with a bundle of scrawny, flailing limbs dumped over his shoulders.

“Stop squirming, or I’ll drop you,” he admonished, shifting Peter into a more secure position. The kid stilled, but he kicked Tony lightly in the ribs every few seconds in retaliation.

Tony finally reached Peter’s room and dropped the kid onto his bed, smirking down at him while rolling out his neck. The kid was breathless and flushed, and unsuccessfully attempting to suppress the grin that kept pushing at the corner of his lips. Tony winced at the twinge in his back.

“Told you you’re too old to carry me,” said Peter, tired eyes and messy hair rather ruining the effect of the kid’s triumphant smirk and only making him look younger.

Tony chuckled and pulled at one of Peter’s curls. “Nah, you’re a lightweight.”

Peter batted his hand away with a scowl. “Your _face_ is a lightweight.”

“We seriously gotta replenish your comeback supply,” said Tony, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Peter glowered at him but slumped back into his pillows. 

“Okay, go to sleep,” said Tony, patting the kid’s shoulder before turning to go. Peter grabbed onto his wrist before he could take a step, and he turned back with a questioning tilt of his head. The kid chewed his lip for a moment before speaking.

"Um...you...uh...when Thor said that thing about me being...your kid, you didn’t tell him it wasn’t true…” The kid stared resolutely at the floor, still clutching Tony’s wrist.

Tony stared at the top of the kid’s curly head. “Well, you live with me, don’t you?” 

The kid nodded, head turned down and overgrown curls brushing over his eyes.

“And I let you wreak havoc in my lab, yeah?”

Peter huffed a laugh, shrugging his shoulders in a jerky motion. He still wouldn’t look up.

“And I’m the boss of you, right?”

The kid snorted at that, finally glancing up as though to argue the fact, but his face softened into an expression that Tony couldn’t quite read. It was obvious that he wanted something that Tony wasn't sure he knew how to give.

_I better not screw this up._

Tony drew in a quick breath. “So you live with me, you drive me up a wall and touch all my stuff, and, for some reason, I still want you around.” Tony lightly rapped the top of the kid’s head. “What does that tell you?”

Peter smiled briefly, though widely enough that it reached his eyes, before rolling to the side so that he was facing Tony, still holding his wrist, but his eyes no longer within Tony’s field of vision. 

“Okay, buddy, now it’s really time to get some shut-eye.” He squeezed Peter's shoulder before pulling his wrist out of the kid’s slackened grip, but the kid latched on to the sleeve of his shirt. Tony paused, raising his eyebrows, and finding himself utterly unable to muster an ounce of annoyance.

“You should also go to sleep,” said Peter, blinking tiredly up at him.

Tony’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “Who’s the adult here?”

Peter frowned. “You are, but-” he broke off, biting his lip.

Tony furrowed his brow. “What is it?”

“Can’t I- can’t I care about you too?”

Tony opened his mouth, then closed it again, momentarily at a loss for words. He blinked hard and stared at Peter, who was looking up at him with an earnest, trusting gaze that left Tony reeling, the urges to both run away and to pull the kid close warring for dominance. He settled by placing his free hand on the side Peter’s head and keeping it there while the kid’s shoulders gradually relaxed and his breaths grew slow and steady. The kid’s hand slipped from Tony’s sleeve as he drifted off, but Tony stayed there few several moments longer before backing slowly out of the room.

Tony’s feet guided him to his own bed before he quite realized where he was headed. For once, he slept without dreams.

*****

“Dude, what is your _life_?”

“I know, right?” said Peter, grinning. “Like, no big deal, the God of Thunder shows up in my house sometimes. Totally normal.”

Ned just stared at him in amazement, mouthing wordlessly.

Peter glanced around quickly, his grin fading. “Listen, man, I need your help with something.” He pulled Ned closer to the lockers.

“Yes, I’ll totally help you,” Ned said quickly.

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna ask.”

“I’ll still help you.”

Peter glanced behind him again.

“Okay, so, listen. I have this friend who goes to one of the public schools around here, and I really need to go see her, but I can’t let anyone find out.”

“Why not?” Ned asked, frowning. “Is she a criminal or something? Wait, is she secretly a spy, and you’ll blow her cover if-”

“No, no,” Peter said, a bit impatiently. “It’s just- we were- we were in a foster home together for a while, but then I got moved, and I just need to make sure that she’s- I just want to see her, you know?”

Ned’s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered Peter.

“Is she okay?” Ned asked quietly. It was times like this that reminded Peter of Ned’s shrewdness. 

Peter lowered his eyes. “I hope so.”

“What do you need me to do?” Ned asked, straightening his shoulders. “Whatever it is, I’ll help.”

Peter exhaled heavily. “Thanks, Ned, really.” He pulled Ned over to a quiet corner near the bathroom. “I want to sneak out during lunch and grab the bus. I just need you to cover for me if I don’t get back in time for class.”

“Done,” Ned said with a grin. “I’m a master of excuses.”

Peter jiggled his leg impatiently through the morning classes, and he shot out of his seat the moment the bell rang for lunch. He grabbed his backpack and speed-walked to the building’s entrance, which made the impact all the more jarring when he tripped over an outstretched foot and landed painfully on the concrete in front of the building.

“Watch where you’re going, idiot.”

Peter glanced up to see Flash smirking down at him.

_I don’t have time for this crap._

Another day, Peter might have felt intimidated. But now, he just rolled his eyes and scrambled to his feet, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans as he hurried towards the nearby bus stop, ignoring the ache in his knees. The bus arrived quickly, and Peter felt guilty for spending the money Mr. Stark had given him, even if it was only a couple of dollars. Mr. Stark would be pissed if he knew what Peter had used it for.

Traffic wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but he squirmed impatiently throughout the bus right, shooting out of the door as soon as he arrived at his stop. It was a five minute walk from there to MJ’s school, and he easily blended in with the kids mingling outside the building. This was the school Peter would have attended if he hadn't moved in with Mr. Stark, and he felt cold just thinking about how easily things could have been different for him. How things still were for MJ.

Peter found her in the library. He’d checked the cafeteria first, nearly despairing of finding her, when it occurred to him where she was most likely to be. She startled when he approached, sitting up quickly and pulling her book close to her chest. 

“Peter,” she breathed.

“Hey, MJ,” Peter gave a relieved smile and sat across from her. They stared at each other for a moment. MJ looked exhausted, her eyes bloodshot and her face paler and gaunter that he remembered it.

“What the hell are you doing here, Peter?” she asked incredulously.

“I wanted to see you,” he said, fishing around in his pocket. “And also to give you this.” He held out the phone, charger dangling from the port. “It’s activated and everything.”

She stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Peter. “How-”

“It’s a spare, I have another one,” Peter said quickly. “Please take it.” She reached out to take it and turned it slowly in her hand.

Peter met her eyes. “Are you okay, MJ?” he asked quietly.

She looked at him for a long moment, her knuckles growing white around the phone. She finally nodded. “I’m fine, Peter.”

_No, you're not._

Peter didn't voice his thoughts.

“And the kids?” he asked instead. “They’re fine,” she answered more quickly.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s- it’s good to see you, Peter,” she said, with a slight waver in her tone.

“You too, MJ,” said Peter. “I’m sorry I-”

“It’s not your fault,” she snapped. “I’m glad you got out.”

It was Peter’s turn to avoid her eyes.

“But, it’s better, now, where you are, right?” she asked. Peter looked up and nodded firmly. “Yes, it’s good. It’s- really good.”

“Who do you live with?” she asked, thumbing the screen on the phone without looking at it.

“Tony Stark, if you can believe it,” Peter replied, his lips turning up.

MJ raised her eyebrows, surprised, and Peter shrugged at her, still smiling.

“I’m glad,” she said, cracking her first smile since he’d arrived. Peter felt something ease in his chest at her words, and he wanted nothing more than to sit there with her, do to something, anything that would keep the smile on her face and remove the dark shadow that seemed to press down on her beneath the cool exterior. He glanced at the time on his phone, tensing when he realized how late it was. 

“I gotta go, MJ," Peter said reluctantly. "But my number is saved in the phone, so you can reach me whenever.” He met her eyes again. “If you need anything, call me, or text, or whatever. Just, please.”

MJ nodded at him, rolling the phone around in her hand.

Peter looked back before he left, but her head was hunched over her book, phone clutched tightly in her fist. He let the door of the library swing closed behind him.

The bus took longer to arrive than he’d hoped, and by the time he arrived back at Midtown, first period after lunch was well underway. He hovered by the door, peeking through the window until he caught Ned's eye. Ned mouthed something at him, but Peter jumped quickly away before the teacher could notice him.

He ended up spending the rest of the class period locked in a bathroom stall, catching up on his literature homework.

He tried to ignore the growing foreboding feeling when he thought of MJ.

It didn’t quite work.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the thing: I totally did not intend to include Thor in this story, but I watched Ragnarok the other night, and he just strolled right in here and stole the show in a very plot-convenient way. Who am I to stand in the way of the God of Thunder? I hope I did his character justice.


	9. The Mechanic

“I got an interesting phone call from your school the other day,” Mr. Stark said in a casual tone, sticking his head out from under the hood of the car. “I meant to bring it up earlier, but it slipped my mind.”

Peter frowned in confusion, absentmindedly fiddling with the metal tool Mr. Stark had pressed into his hands in his hands as he thought furiously through the events of the past week. His stomach dropped when he remembered.

“R-really? What did- what did they call about?” he asked, trying very hard to sound unconcerned.

“They said you skipped a class.” The man straightened up and propped up the hood.

Peter felt his breathing speed up, and he hunched in on himself, squeezing the handle of the tool in his hand.

_Oh, god, he’s mad. What do I say? I can’t tell him where I went. He’ll only be angrier-_

“Hey, calm down, kiddo,” Mr. Stark slowly approached, hands loose at his side, and Peter straightened, staring at Mr. Stark through rapid breaths. The man furrowed his brow.

“I’m not mad.”

Peter stared at him. “You’re not?”

Mr. Stark gave a low chuckle, wiping his hands on his thighs. “Nah. It would be pretty hypocritical of me, considering the shit I got up to when I was in school.”

“That’s- that’s it?” Peter asked incredulously. 

“Do you _want_ me to be angry?” Mr. Stark asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, no,” Peter said quickly. “I just- I just thought you’d be.”

Mr. Stark shrugged. “Just try not to make a habit of skipping class, all right?”

Peter nodded frantically, his heart still pounding, and Mr. Stark turned back towards the car he’d been repairing.

Peter watched him for a few moments before working up the nerve to ask the question that had been pressing at him.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asked tentatively.

“Yeah?”

“What will you do if I- if I do make you mad?”

Peter stared at his hands, fists clenched around the metal tool. What was he even supposed to do with it?

“Huh,” said Mr. Stark, glancing over at Peter from under his arm. “I haven’t really given it much thought, to be perfectly honest.”

Peter tensed even further, and he looked at Mr. Stark imploringly, not entirely sure what he was asking for. The man studied him for a moment, head tilted, until his expression cleared and darkened slightly.

“I can tell you what I _won’t_ do,” Mr. Stark said in a firm voice, straightening up.

Peter blinked at him, his throat still tight and his heart thudding slightly too quickly.

“I won’t lock you in your room, or withhold food, or- or ignore you." The man's eyes seemed to go distant for a moment before turning back to Peter abruptly. “And I definitely won’t hit you, if that’s what’s got you so nervous.”

“I- I didn’t think you would,” Peter said in a small voice. “I didn’t.”

Mr. Stark sighed. “Listen, Pete, I’m not gonna bring the hammer down every time you sneeze wrong, okay?”

Peter gave him a jerky nod.

“If it comes to that, we’ll talk about it. I’m sure we can figure something out that we can both live with.”

Peter chewed his lip. “Can you just- I- it’s easier if I know-”

“Oh, I’m an idiot,” said Mr. Stark, stepping closer. “Kids need boundaries and consistency and shit, don’t they? “

“I- I guess…” Peter started, a little lost.

“Okay.” Mr. Stark grasped Peter by the upper arm and guided him over to stand next to the car. “So, tell me, what did your aunt and uncle do when you screwed up?” 

Peter swallowed. “Um, they’d make me do extra chores and stuff, or they’d take my phone, or…” He trailed off, feeling uncomfortable.

“And did that seem fair to you?” 

Peter nodded reluctantly.

“So that’s what we’ll do, okay?” Mr. Stark rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You screw the pooch, you lose phone privileges for the day. Or something like that.” He squeezed gently. “That work for you?”

Peter nodded slowly, still lost, but feeling considerably calmer. “Good,” said Mr. Stark. “So, you ever used a bolt spinner?” He inclined his head towards the tool clutched in Peter’s fist. Peter shook his head, eyes on the ground.

“Okay,” Mr. Stark said, dropping to his knees in front of the wheel. “Get down here, let me show you…” Mr. Stark demonstrated how to remove the bolts on the wheels before handing it over, and Peter soon got into a rhythm as the man continued to work under the hood.

“Did you really get into a lot of trouble in school?” Peter asked after some time, glancing up from the wheel.

“Yep." Peter could hear the smirk in Mr. Stark's voice, despite his face being hidden. “And don’t ask how. I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

“Come on, tell me,” Peter wheedled. “I promise I won’t do it.” 

“Well, I did send no less than six teachers into crying fits, and that’s all you need to know.”

“How old were you?” Peter asked interestedly.

“Nine? Ten? It’s hard to remember, everything sort of blends together.”

“Wow,” Peter remarked. “You must have, like, blown up the entire school by the time you were my age.”

Mr. Stark laughed. “You’re not far off, kid.”

They left the garage not long after, and Peter set himself up in the lab to start on his homework. He got through his Chemistry assignment pretty quickly, but History was tedious, and his mind kept wandering to other, more enticing topics. Like watching paint dry. 

He glanced at his phone and tapped on MJ’s contact to check for messages. There was nothing, as it had been since he’d given her the phone, and Peter couldn’t help feeling worried. He grabbed the phone and typed out a quick message, but he paused before pressing send.

_What if she gets a notification when Skip is around? He might take it away._

Feeling slightly sick, Peter erased the message, letter by letter.

_I can’t tell anyone, it will just make things worse. He'll hurt her, he’ll kick her out, she'll end up on the street…_

Peter tried to push back the thoughts and made to set down his phone when he noticed a text from Ned.

“Hey, Mr. Stark?” Peter called out, forcing an upbeat tone into his voice. “Can I go to Ned’s house after school tomorrow?”

“Sure, bud. Do you need a ride?”

“No, Ned’s carpool has extra room, and I can take the subway back.”

“No way, kid,” the man said, peering over his shoulder. “I’ll either have Happy pick you up, or I’ll do it myself.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Sure thing. You can bring him over here sometime, too, if you want.”

Peter smiled. “Ned’s terrified of you.”

“Good to know I’ve still got it,” said Mr. Stark, chuckling, as he turned back to his screen.

“It’s only ‘cause he doesn’t actually know you,” said Peter with a half-smile.

“Hey, I’m intimidating,” Mr. Stark protested, swiveling his chair around and sliding it closer to Peter.

“Sure you are.” Peter smirked.

“Are you patronizing me?” asked Mr. Stark with narrowed eyes.

“Why would you think that?” said Peter innocently.

“That’s enough out of you, smartass,” said Mr. Stark with an exaggerated glare. Peter couldn’t suppress his chuckles, and he dodged out of the way when the man reached over to poke him in the ribs.

“Okay, okay, very cute,” Mr. Stark said with a resigned grin. “You hungry? You’re probably hungr- what the hell? How is it nine, already? This is all your fault.”

“Why’s it my fault?”

“You distracted me. I’m gonna feed you Brussels sprouts for dinner.”

“I like Brussels sprouts.”

“Damn it, I forgot what a weird kid you are.”

Peter shrugged, still grinning, and he slammed his dreaded History notebook shut.

“What did that notebook ever do you you?” Mr. Stark asked, rubbing his temples and squeezing his eyes shut briefly.

“I hate History,” Peter muttered, scowling. Mr. Stark let out a laugh. “Well, put it away for now, you need to eat.”

“Only if you eat, too,” said Peter, shoving his notebooks back into his bag. Mr. Stark raised his eyebrows. “Is that how you think this works, bud?”

“Yup.” 

Mr. Stark snorted. “All right, you got me. Let’s go get our Brussels sprouts.”

They didn’t eat Brussels sprouts.

*****

Peter jiggled his leg all throughout his classes the next day, anxious for school to end so he could go home with Ned. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d actually gone over to a friend’s house, but, judging by his excitement, it had been longer than he cared to remember. He and Ned both shot out the door as soon as the bell rang and chatted throughout the drive to Ned’s house.

Ned’s family was really nice. His mom gave them cookies when they arrived, and Ned’s younger sister seemed sweet, even if she followed them around everywhere and peppered Peter with relentless questions.

Peter didn’t ask where Ned’s father was.

Ned eventually kicked his sister out of his room and grinned at Peter, a bit self-consciously. “You have a cool house,” Peter said, glancing around. “And your room is awesome, man.”

Ned’s desk and dresser were crowded with intricate Lego sets, and Peter’s eyes widened when he noticed one in particular. “Dude, is that a _Death Star_?”

Ned smiled proudly. “Yeah, just finished it last week. Isn’t it _amazing_?”

They messed around with Ned’s Lego for a while before reluctantly setting it aside to start on their algebra homework. Peter was pretty good at algebra, but Ned definitely had him beat in that department.

“Dude, how do you even?” Peter asked, chagrined, when Ned closed his notebook before Peter had even finished two-thirds of the assignment. 

Ned shrugged. “Dunno, it just...makes sense to me, I guess. Don’t look at me like that,” he added, when Peter made a face. “I can barely keep up with you in chemistry, so stop complaining.”

Peter rolled his eyes, smiling, and finished the last few algebra problems before digging around for his Spanish homework.

“I can’t wait for sophomore year,” said Ned as they conjugated verbs. “We can finally sign up for electives, and computer science is it for me. It’s literally the entire reason I wanted to go to this school.”

“That’s pretty cool.” Peter absentmindedly doodled a shapeless squiggle where he was supposed to fill in the answer. “I think I’m gonna sign up for mechanical engineering, or chemical engineering, or...I don’t even know. There’s so many to choose from.”

“I want to become an awesome hacker and, like, save the world with my mad hacking skills.”

Peter laughed. “I hope you won’t use those mad skills against me.”

Ned pressed a hand to his heart. “Dude, I would never. I can be your guy in the chair, you know?”

“Huh?”

“Like in the movies, the guy typing furiously into ten different screens and talking through a headset.”

“What would I be doing, then?”

“Well, you would be making these groundbreaking, top-secret scientific discoveries, and people would be trying to steal your ideas, and I'd be the hacker, fighting the hackers.”

“So, the anti-hacker?” Peter grinned.

“I like that. Sounds badass.”

They finished their homework soon after, and Peter pulled himself away reluctantly when Happy honked from the driveway. Unsurprisingly, the man didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, so Peter put on his earbuds, the cool, wireless ones that Mr. Stark had given him, and let the music lull him into a calm, almost sleepy state.

The car abruptly screeched to a halt, flinging Peter forward sharply so that the seat belt dug painfully into his hips. Earbuds having slid out of his ears at the impact, Peter glanced around wildly to see a thick cloud of dust obscuring the car windows. Dust...the entire world was dust and it was all he could see…

_There was still a heavy cloud of dust in the air even days after it happened. Tiny grey particles kept landing on Peter’s shoulders as he made his reluctant way down the path to his old house, and he tried not to think about how the ash on his clothes had once been a living, breathing person-_

_No. No. Peter squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he approached the familiar white door. May had repainted it just weeks ago. Every bone in Peter’s body was screaming at him to turn back, to run away, because he knew exactly what he’d find inside the house. Dust. Only dust-_

“-id. Kid!”

Peter’s eyes shot open, and he reared back in his seat when he found Happy’s lined, worried face inches from his own.

Happy drew back a few inches. “Just take a breath, kid. That’s right, breathe.” The man’s hands hovered over Peter’s shoulders as he did his best to steady his breaths, and Peter sagged in his seat, wiping his shaky, sweaty hands on his jeans.

“Kid? What’s going on with you?”

Peter took a shallow breath. “There’s dust everywhere.” His voice was almost inaudible, and he didn’t look up to see Happy’s expression.

Peter heard a sharp intake of breath. “Damn it, kid, I’m sorry,” Happy said in a tired voice. “There was a deer in the middle of the street, that’s what I get for taking these back roads. It’s just dust from the road that the wheels dragged up. That’s all.”

Happy tapped Peter’s shoulder. “Take a look, it’s all cleared up.”

Peter shook his head wildly, still staring at his clenched fists, because he couldn’t look up, he couldn’t, because when he did, there would be nothing left.

There was a heavy pause, only Peter’s loud, rapid breaths breaking the silence, until Happy shifted towards the door.

“I’m gonna get back into the driver’s seat and take you home, okay? Tony will- he’ll fix this.”

Peter didn’t answer, and Happy let out a heavy sigh before sliding out of the backseat and restarting the car. Peter closed his eyes and sat there, still and silent, for the remainder of the ride.

“Kid, come on out, we’re back.”

Peter heard the car door open, and he felt Happy shake his shoulder, but he didn’t move or open his eyes.

“C’mon, kid,” Happy said again, more impatiently.

Peter’s breath hitched. “I _can’t_,” he said in a cracked whisper. 

There was a brief pause. “Okay, I’m texting Tony, he’s on his way up.”

A few moments later, Mr. Stark was there. Peter felt him slide into the backseat next to him and lay a hand on his shoulder, and Happy's heavy footsteps retreated.

“Heard you two lost a fight with a deer,” said Mr. Stark, squeezing Peter’s shoulder. Peter shrugged. 

“I’m sure you’ll win the fight next time,” Mr. Stark tried again, Peter knew he was trying, but he couldn’t bring himself to so much as lift his head in response.

“Bud, please, talk to me,” said Mr. Stark, a pleading note lacing his tone. Peter took a long breath.

“There’s dust everywhere,” he whispered. “If I open my eyes, everything will be gone.”

Mr. Stark didn’t respond for a moment, but Peter felt him shift, and a calloused hand covered his smaller, fisted one.

“Feel that, Peter? That’s real. I’m right here.”

Peter’s fingers twitched, and he finally unclenched his fist to wrap his hand around Mr. Stark’s. The man then cupped his other hand under Peter’s chin and lifted his head.

“Open your eyes, kid. Look at me.”

Peter opened his eyes, and Mr. Stark was there, dark brown eyes trained on his, the man’s gaze searching, but...warm. Very warm. Peter’s shoulders loosened minutely. With Mr. Stark’s hand on his, the man’s breaths audible, and warmth radiating from the hand under his chin, the fear slowly began to recede in the face of steadily growing embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Peter muttered. “I’m- I was being stupid, I don’t know why-”

“Hey,” said Mr. Stark sharply. “It’s not stupid. Makes perfect sense, actually.”

Peter furrowed his brow. “Really?”

“Yeah, of course,” said the man firmly. “Why wouldn’t you be afraid?”

Peter blinked. “Um...because it wasn’t real?” 

“It was at one point, though.” Mr. Stark’s eyes darkened, and his face suddenly looked tired, more lined, somehow. “None of us thought any of this could be real, but it happened anyway. Why wouldn’t you be afraid that it could happen again?”

Peter didn’t have a response. He let Mr. Stark pull him gently out of the car and usher him into a chair in the kitchen, where the man pushed a glass of cold water on the table in front of him.

“Drink,” the man said shortly. “You need it.”

Peter obeyed, the water soothing his dry throat, and Mr. Stark sat down next to him with a cup of coffee and rested a hand on Peter’s back. He didn’t ask if Peter was all right, he didn’t say anything at all, but he stayed there until Peter’s eyes began to droop.

Peter went up to bed soon after, declining Mr. Stark's offer to go up with him and leaving the man in the kitchen, hunched over his coffee. He felt exhausted, but he found himself tossing and turning for what felt like hours, thoughts growing increasingly more turbulent. He’d felt like this nearly every night, back at Skip’s place. He’d often felt a creeping, sickening dread build rapidly and press down on him, threatening to suffocate, the feeling tempered only by the slow, steady breathing of little Aaron in the bed across the room.

Peter sat up straight in his bed, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his hands over his ears. He reached over the brighten the light of the lamp and got to his feet, too restless to stay in bed any longer. 

He walked quietly out of his room and crept down to the living room, shivering in the large, darkened space. He wished he was wearing a sweatshirt, even though it wasn’t particularly cold. The dark made everything feel so much...bigger, and the cold seemed to burrow deep into his bones, where he couldn’t warm up no matter how many layers he wore. 

Peter wrapped his arms around his chest and stumbled down to the lab, nearly crying with relief when he saw a soft light glowing from inside.

“FRIDAY, can I-”

“Boss has given you full access to the lab.”

The door slid open, and Peter walked in, craning his neck to spot Mr. Stark at the far side of the room, slinging a hammer against a flattened piece of metal in a frenzied motion. Peter crept closer to watch, not wanting to startle him. There was no fooling him, however, and the man looked up with bloodshot eyes, pausing his movement. His hands were trembling.

“Can’t sleep?” Mr. Stark asked in a hoarse voice. Peter shook his head, blinking tiredly. 

“Me neither.” The man resumed the hammering.

“This is what I do,” said Mr. Stark, hitting the metal harder. “I build things. Fix things. Broken things.” The head of the hammer slipped off the edge of the metal, and a loud scraping sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room. “I couldn’t fix the world, though. The world is an island of broken things, and I failed. I. Fucking. Failed.” He punctuated each word with a thump of the hammer.

Peter didn’t say a word. He stood next to Mr. Stark, grabbed a spare hammer, and went right on fixing things alongside him.

  



	10. Don't Hang Up

The lab felt empty without Peter.

It was strange, because the kid was usually pretty quiet. Once Tony had begun to see glimpses of who Peter really was behind the hunched shoulders and wary gaze, it was easy to see how expressive the kid was, how his excitement would burst forth from him in a torrent of words, tripping over themselves in their haste to be articulated. Even so, when Peter was focused, as he often was in the lab, he’d stay quiet, sometimes for hours, working nonstop until Tony, of all people, had to pull him away.

But now the kid was at school most of the day, and he’d come home even later on the days he had extracurriculars. Robotics, academic something-a-thon; the kid had signed up for what seemed like every nerdy club that was available to him.

Damn it, Tony would freaking buy the kid the entire extracurricular activity industry if it would make him happy.

_What has this kid turned me into?_ Tony thought to himself, as he absentmindedly brushed dust off of Dum-E's cooling fan.

There was something so...pure about the kid that made Tony...feel things. Things he hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to feel again. He was actually doing something good, in all this mess. He’d failed to save the world, to save Pepper, to save his child, but this kid? Maybe Tony hadn’t saved him, but he had done something right. Tony could see it in the way the kid smiled, and the way he’d grown more relaxed, feeling safe enough to slouch and snark and grumble when things didn’t turn out the way he wanted.

But Tony couldn’t pretend it made his losses any less painful. It didn’t make it any easier to bear the guilt he carried for letting this all happen, for watching Pepper literally slip through his fingers, and she’d _promised_…

_Tony had never been one to mince words. He was on a suicide mission to stop a giant purple grape from decimating the universe’s population. And he was in a flying donut with Harry freaking Potter, who had skulked off to a corner somewhere to do magicky things that Tony wasn’t convinced was real, and not a vivid hallucination that his overwrought mind had cooked up-_

_He reared back in shock when a figure in a familiar suit of his design stepped within his field of vision, and the mask melted away to reveal a shock of strawberry-blonde hair._

_“Pepper, what the fuck are you doing here?” Tony yelled, stomping towards her._

_“I followed you,” she said calmly, not moving from her spot._

_Tony mouthed wordlessly for several seconds. “You- it’s not safe, Pepper! Not for you_ or _the baby!”_

_Pepper actually scoffed. “Okay, first of all, our baby is safer in this suit in the middle of space than she’d be on a normal afternoon in New York City.” She held up a hand when Tony made to interrupt, and he snapped his mouth shut. “Second of all, you’re one to talk about_ safe_, Tony.”_

_“I-”_

_“No,” Pepper snapped. “Don’t talk. Listen.”_

_Tony glared at her, but he pressed his lips together and waited._

_“I know what you’re doing. I know what you’re here for.” Pepper drew a sharp breath. “I’ve spent years watching you run off into danger, painting a bull’s eye on your chest, and I am done with it. I’m done letting you leave me behind while you run off to get yourself killed.”_

_“Pepper, I-”_

_“No,” she said, stepping closer. “I won’t let you die here while I wait.”_

_Tony let out a long breath and reached for her hand. “I can’t lose you, Pepper,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t. There’d be no point trying to save the world if I didn’t have you to come back to.”_

_Pepper’s face softened, and she squeezed his hand tightly. “You won’t lose me, Tony. I promise. We’re in this together. I won’t leave you.”_

_And that promise was, perhaps, the reason why, as Tony held Pepper’s ashen face in his trembling hands moments before she and his unborn child faded away, her final words were, “I’m sorry.”_

Tony was jerked out of his thoughts when his burner phone vibrated in his inner jacket pocket. He fumbled for it with shaky hands and groaned when he saw he it was. He’d been expecting this call, but it didn’t make him any more inclined to answer.

“What?” Tony asked shortly, putting the phone to his ear. At least she only had his burner phone number. He could easily discard it, and he would have done if he hadn’t promised Rhodey he’d at least hear her out.

“Nice to finally hear your voice, Stark,” Maria Hill said.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a joy to be around.” He inhaled. “What can I do for you on this lovely, lovely afternoon?”

“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr. Stark,” said Hill. “I’m well aware that you have no interest in speaking to me, and, believe me, the feeling is mutual.”

Tony snorted.

“However,” she continued, unimpeded. “You’re all we have, so here were are.”

“You mean, I’m the only Avenger left who isn’t a pile of ash or off the grid. Besides for Thor.”

“Yes.” She paused. “I’d have contacted Romanoff or Barton, but those two are far more skilled than you are at disappearing.”

“I’ll bet they are,” Tony muttered. “What makes you think I have anything to give you?”

“Listen, Fury had his way of doing this, and his own motivations that none of us were privy to. I have no interest in manipulating you, or using you for some bigger purpose that you’ll never be told about. That’s not my style.”

“Nice to hear.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Listen, Stark, I’m not going to give you a whole speech about responsibility, and about how you have an obligation to do what you can with the power that you have-”

“Good thing,” Tony cut in. “Because I don’t care how goddamn irreplaceable I am, I’d hang up on you so fast-”

“Not everything is about you, Stark.”

“Yet _you_ called _me_.”

“Yes, I did, because as much as I hate to admit it, we need you.”

“I fully agree with that statement, but why on earth would you need me?”

Hill let out a tired sigh. “I wasn’t planning to approach you at all until Thor showed up. He may be melodramatic at times, but he had a point.”

“And what point is that?”

“That the world still needs its heroes. Now, especially. Suicide rates are through the roof, and crime has significantly increased in nearly every country. It’s not just a matter of keeping up morale, it’s a matter of maintaining the population that we have.”

“Where do I come in?” Tony asked.

“Like it or not, you’ve always been the face of the Avengers.”

“I thought that was Cap,” Tony muttered.

“Steve might have been the captain, but it’s always been you, Stark. You know this.”

Tony opened his mouth to reply when a call from Happy came through on his other cell.

“Apologies, Hill, gotta take this call.”

“Stark, wait-”

He hung up.

*****

“Yo, Penis Parker!”

Peter flinched and clutched his books closer to his chest as he walked quickly towards his locker. A few passing students snickered at the moniker.

“Nothing to say, Penis?” Flash said again, gaining on him. Peter walked faster, though not enough to avoid Flash bumping into his shoulder and knocking his books to the floor.

“Leave me alone,” Peter muttered, kneeling down to pick up his books. He felt a wash of relief when he saw Ned’s shoes come to a stop in front of him.

“Oh, look, it’s your boyfriend,” said Flash loudly. Peter flushed but didn’t acknowledge him, and Ned rolled his eyes as he knelt down to help Peter gather up his things. 

“There’s a reason penis is your middle name-”

“Shut the hell up, Flash,” Ned snapped, glaring up at him. “Is _Penis_ really the best nickname you can come up with? It’s like you haven’t improved your technique since first grade.”

Flash’s face reddened angrily, and he stomped over to them and leaned down-

“Is there a problem?”

All three of them glanced up to see the formidable form of Mr. Winters standing over them. Peter curled in on himself a little more.

“They started it,” Flash said loudly. “I was just-”

“With Parker’s books all over the floor, I somehow find that hard to believe.”

Flash looked away and muttered something under his breath before slinking off.

“All right, Parker?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter, biting his lip. Mr. Winters gave him a rare smile. “Good job on that essay, by the way. Top marks.”

Peter couldn’t suppress his smile, and he felt a bit better as he watched the teacher walk away.

“Thanks,” Peter said quietly as Ned handed him a stack of books. He got to his feet and pressed the stack of books against his chest. Ned shoulder bumped against his.

“The jerk had it coming,” said Ned. “He’s a total dick.”

“Wish he’d point it somewhere else,” Peter muttered. Ned snorted.

“He’s just insecure,” Ned said knowingly as they walked towards their lockers. “He obviously realizes you’re better than him.”

Peter sighed. “Almost everyone is better than him, though. He picks on me ‘cause I’m an easy target.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re an easy target,” said Ned. “But you do kind of...let him walk all over you.”

Peter huffed. “I know. I just freeze up whenever he starts with me, and I always think of the perfect thing to say, like, in the shower.”

Ned chuckled. “Same thing happens to me, except it’s about imaginary conversations with celebrities.”

Peter couldn’t help laughing, and Ned nudged him in mock reproach.

“Ya know, if Flash knew you lived with Tony Stark, he'd probably be too scared to mess with you,” said Ned, lowering his voice.

“It’s none of his business,” Peter said as they turned the corner. “And I don’t even know if Mr. Stark wants me to publicize it.”

“Why would he mind?” Ned asked, confused.

Peter shrugged.

“Whatever, man,” said Ned, after a pause. “From what I’ve seen of Tony Stark, he really seems to like you. Why wouldn’t he want people to know?”

Ned had only met Mr. Stark once, when the man had unexpectedly picked Peter up from school; he’d stood there, gaping, while the man rolled down the window and poked his head out, grinning, to say that Happy wasn’t around today and to hurry up, so they could get into as much trouble as possible before Happy got back. Peter had scrambled red-faced into the car, grateful that, at least, Mr. Stark had opted to drive one of his less expensive cars, and none of the other kids seemed to notice him. 

Peter smiled at the memory, his upset at Flash’s behavior draining away.

“You know, he wouldn’t mind if you came over sometime,” he said to Ned. “I can ask-”

“I don’t know,” said Ned, flushing. “I’d probably freak out and make the biggest fool of myself.” He shuddered. “I don’t think I could recover from that.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, you probably would. But it’s not like Mr. Stark would mind. I think he secretly loves the attention.”

“But I would,” Ned said with another shudder. “I’d live the rest of my miserable life knowing that I, I don’t know, peed myself in front of Tony Stark, and I’d never, ever forget it. They’ll be telling stories about it to my great-great-grandchildren-”

Peter laughed, and Ned couldn’t help but chuckle along with him. They reached their lockers, and Peter huffed as he dumped his books onto the shelf. 

“God, I hate PE,” he groaned, fishing around for his gym clothes.

“If you hate PE, than I despise it,” Ned said from behind him. “It’s like someone specially designed a form of torture that they could get away with by calling it educational.”

“It doesn’t help that we both suck,” Peter muttered, dragging his feet a little as he led the way to the locker room to change. Peter jumped slightly when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, freezing in place when he saw who was calling.

“I gotta take this,” Peter said quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

Ignoring Ned’s questioning look, he hurried into the nearby bathroom to answer the call.

“MJ?” Peter answered the phone breathlessly.

For a moment, all he heard was rapid breathing, and he nearly dropped the phone when he heard MJ let out a strangled moan of pain.

“Peter,” she choked out through a sob. “Please, please come.” 

“MJ, what-”

She let out another pained gasp that bordered on a scream.

“‘I’m coming, I’m coming, MJ, just tell me where you are!” Peter said desperately, the phone shaking against his ear.

“S-S-Skip’s,” MJ gasped through wheezing breaths.

“Okay, okay, MJ, I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t hang up-”

The call ended.

Peter stood frozen for a moment, staring at his phone, before shoving it into his pocket and dashing out of the bathroom. Ignoring Ned calling after him, he hurried down the hallway as quickly as he could without attracting attention. Once off the school grounds, he broke into a run and flagged down the nearing taxi, throwing a fifty at the driver and stammering Skip’s address. The driver didn't bat an eyelid.

Peter collapsed against the back of his seat and put a hand to his chest, still breathing hard. He tried to call MJ again, once, twice, three times, but the call went straight to voicemail each time.

_What happened? Did Skip do something? This is all my fault, I should have just said something to Mr. Stark, or anyone, even. How could I let this happen?_

Peter could remember that morning vividly, the day he’d left Skip’s house, when the man had grabbed him by the collar and whispered threateningly in his ear.

_One word, and your pretty little friend will feel the consequences._

And the night before, when Peter had been curled in his bed, his whole body aching, and Skip had come in, his shadow looming menacingly by the doorway.

_You think you’d have it better anywhere else?_ he’d asked, his voice curiously flat. _You think anyone wants to keep you around?_ Peter had struggled into a sitting position, ignoring the pain when he pressed his back against the wall. His younger foster brother was peacefully asleep at the other end of the room.

_You’re just one of millions, both of you. And teenagers, too. No one wants teenagers. They want fresh-faced little kids without all this...baggage. You’re lucky. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what they do to scrawny kids like you on the streets. And what happens to pretty little things like Michelle. So keep your goddamn mouth shut._

And Peter had. Because Skip was right, wasn’t he. No one really wanted them, and it could have been worse. He and MJ could have ended up on the street, without food, and without a roof over their heads, and...Peter couldn’t even think about it. And then Skip had kicked him out the next day, and Peter had kept quiet, because, if he told, it could have become so, so much worse for MJ.

He thought he’d been protecting her.

It felt like the drive went on for hours, even though less than twenty minutes had passed when the taxi pulled up in front of Skip’s house. Peter scrambled out of the car, almost tripping over the curb in his haste.

He stared up at the house that had once induced a thrill of terror whenever he’d come back after school.

But now, Peter didn’t have time to be afraid. 

  



	11. Walls Closing In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm kind of nervous about posting this chapter, as it takes a rather dark turn, and I really don't want to upset anyone. As such, please note that this chapter contains some heavy subject matter (previously indicated in the story tags), including unwanted touching, implied/referenced rape (mentioned after the fact, not actually depicted in the story), and child abuse. There is no graphic content, but please heed the warning.

**Approximately one month after the Snap:**

“What do you think?”

Peter glanced up when his social worker, Mrs. Mitchell, tapped his shoulder. She wasn’t strictly _his_ social worker; CPS had far more kids than they could handle at the moment, so they were handed off to whomever was available. As social workers went, she was pretty nice.

“It’s nice,” Peter mumbled, giving a cursory glance at the modest but well-kept suburban house they were standing outside of.

“Better than the group home, huh?” Mrs. Mitchell asked with a gentle smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’ll have a lot more privacy here. And it’ll definitely be quieter.”

“Yeah,” Peter muttered.

Mrs. Mitchell squeezed his shoulder. “Chin up, Peter. There’s a girl living here who’s thirteen, just like you, and a couple of little ones, too. Give it a chance.”

Peter turned his head to give her a brief smile. He owed her that much.

But, honestly, Peter couldn’t bring himself to feel much of anything. He didn’t care where he lived. It didn’t matter, because everything looked the same, without May and Ben. He could be living in a twenty story mansion and it wouldn’t be any different, because it wasn’t home.

Peter dragged his feet a little as he followed Mrs. Mitchell down the walkway and up the five steps to the door. It swung opened seconds after she knocked, and they were met by a tall, broad-shouldered, blond-haired man. He was clean-shaven, dressed in a starched, button-down shirt and slacks, and although his shirt was untucked, he had a distinct air of fastidiousness.

“Welcome, Peter,” he said. “Come on in.” He stepped back to allow them to pass, holding out a hand to take Peter’s suitcase. It took Peter a moment to unclench his fingers from the handle, and he took a step back and watched disinterestedly as Mrs. Mitchell and the man talked, not really processing anything they were saying.

He jumped when a hand tapped his shoulder. 

“I have to get going, Peter,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “Mr. Westcott here will get you settled, all right?”

Peter nodded numbly, and she gave him a final pat before stepping through the door and closing it gently behind her. Leaving him alone.

Mr. Westcott held out his hand, and it took Peter a moment to realize that he was supposed to shake it.

“I’m Steven, but you can call me Skip,” he said with a closed-lip smile. Peter nodded, looking at the man’s chin rather than his eyes. There was a brief, awkward pause.

“Why don’t I show you around a bit before we take your stuff upstairs?” Peter nodded again, and the man pressed a large hand to his upper back to lead him further into the house. 

The place was clean, almost unnervingly so, and there was a faint, but distinctive odor of lemon-scented floor cleaner in every room. Peter let himself be led in and out of the kitchen, living room, and study, all equally pristine, before they stopped in front of the stairs next to his suitcase.

“I’ll take you upstairs to unpack,” Skip said from above Peter’s head. “The younger kids are on a playdate, but Michelle’s up in her room.”

Skip carried Peter’s bag up the steep flight of stairs, leading him into a fairly small room containing two twin beds with matching blue-checkered sheets, a large wooden dresser, desk, and closet. The room was slightly less immaculate than the rest of the house; one of the beds was unmade, and there were a few Hot Wheels cars scattered across the polished wooden floor. There was also a child-sized sock peeking over the edge of a laundry basket next to the door.

“You’ll be sharing with Aaron, I hope you don't mind. He’s five. Great kid.” Peter shrugged. In the group home, he’d slept in a small, stuffy room crowded with three bunk beds. One little kid was nothing.

“Thank you, Mr.-uh- Skip,” Peter remembered to say. “The room is great.”

Skip gave him another closed-lip smile. “I’m glad. Wait here a moment while I go get Michelle. She’s just your age.”

The man exited the room, and Peter stood motionlessly next to his suitcase. Nothing about the room reminded him of home, but something about it made Peter’s throat close up.

_I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go-_

Peter glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps to see Skip at the doorway, standing behind a girl with his hand on her shoulder. The girl was tall, thin, and dark-haired, and she was watching Peter very intently.

“Peter, Michelle. Michelle, Peter.” Peter gave her a weak smile, and her lips twitched slightly in response.

“Peter will be joining your class in school tomorrow, why don’t you tell him about it while I go put lunch together?” He squeezed Michelle’s shoulder, and she tensed almost imperceptibly until he let go and stepped away.

She stepped further into the room when he left, shoving her hands into the pockets of her oversized jeans.

“Hi,” Peter said, feeling awkward.

She stared at him for a moment before finally speaking. “Hey.” She glanced at his suitcase. “You want any help with that?” 

“Sure,” Peter said, relieved to move past the awkward moment. He unzipped his suitcase and started pulling clothes out and tossing them on the floor with little care. She knelt down next to him and began tentatively sorting through his things.

“So... uh... how long have you been here?” Peter asked, dumping a folded pile of shirts on his bed.

“Two weeks,” she replied without looking up. “Didn’t have to switch schools, though.”

“That’s good,” said Peter. Truth be told, he didn’t really care about switching. It wasn’t as though he had any real friends left in his old school. 

“What’s it like living here?” Peter asked. 

She finally glanced up at him and shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“Where were you before you came here?”

Michelle laughed, the sound sharp and short, and her eyes looked flat, almost dead. “In my house. I wanted to stay there, but the police found me eventually and handed me off to CPS.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “You were alone in your house for two weeks?”

Michelle shrugged. “I’d still be there if I had my way. What about you?”

Peter swallowed. “CPS came to my school and took me and a bunch of other kids to a group home. I only went back home to get my stuff.” Peter squeezed his eyes shut, the memory of that day still fresh and painful as a day-old wound. It had been a Wednesday, so he’d been at science club after school when it happened.

Cindy, his lab partner, had just...disintegrated while filling a beaker, which had landed on the table and rolled over to shatter at Peter’s feet.

Elliot from across the table had just been...gone...as soon as Peter looked up, as had the lab instructor, Ms. Gonzalez. There had only been six of them left in the room by the time it stopped, and Jamie had had a full-blown panic attack and wouldn’t let any of them come near him. Honestly, Peter hadn’t been too far from having one himself.

And then the soccer coach had come to get them, a sparse crowd of kids in tow, some in soccer gear, others with paint splattered on their clothes, all of their expressions ranging from utter panic to blank shock. 

Some of them were lucky. Some of them still had both their parents, others still had one. Some had living grandparents, aunts, uncles, grown siblings... Anna, one of his only friends, had been sent abroad to live with her second cousin. And some, like Peter, had no one at all, and they’d been brought to the group home.

With effort, Peter shoved away the memories and dragged himself back to the present.

“Who died on your end?” Michelle asked flatly. Peter drew back, startled. She didn’t blink.

“My- my aunt and uncle,” Peter said in a choked voice, he swallowed thickly and narrowed his eyes at her. “What about you?”

“My mother.” Only a twitch of her lips marred her stony features.

Peter took several heavy breaths, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms as he stared at the pile of socks on the floor next to him.

“I-I’m sorry,” said Michelle, a slight waver in her voice. Peter looked up sharply to see that a tense, somewhat hesitant expression had broken through her flat affect. “I shouldn’t have asked that."

Peter let out a breath through his nose. “It’s fine.” His jaw clenched. “Saying it out loud doesn’t make them any deader.”

Michelle let out a huff of breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

-

Things were okay, at first. The little kids were still young enough to have retained an air of innocence despite everything that had happened, and Peter found that it was easier to sleep with Aaron in the room. Seven-year-old Ellie was hilarious, sometimes to an irritating degree, but, occasionally, she even managed to make Michelle chuckle, and she was fiercely protective of her little brother.

School was...well, to put it lightly, a mess, but it was clear the faculty was doing their very best to maintain a sense of normalcy and routine, and most kids responded with uncharacteristic cooperativeness. And the eighth graders, as the oldest in the school, felt a sense of responsibility to the younger students to present a cheerful facade.

It helped, having Michelle there. She didn’t speak much, and was really hard to read, but Peter felt comfortable with her. He felt safer with her around, and sometimes, in her company, he could forget the reality they were living in, if only for a moment. Michelle soon became MJ, and Peter knew that she was the one thing keeping him from falling apart completely. But he noticed something off about her, after a while.

She was jumpy, in a way she hadn’t been when they’d first met, and the perpetual dark circles under her eyes were pretty telling of frequent sleepless nights. Every time Peter thought to ask her what was wrong, the words died on his lips, because _everything_ was wrong, so what kind of stupid question was that?

Peter stumbled through the door late Thursday afternoon after band practice, which he’d joined just to have something to do, and he nearly dumped his backpack on the floor before remembering that Skip hated when he did that. Bag still hooked on his shoulder, he made his way to the kitchen for a snack, but he froze at the doorway.

MJ and Skip were both facing away from him, towards the counter, and Skip’s hand was pressing down low on MJ’s back, inching steadily lower, while she stood ramrod straight with her hands clenched at her sides.

Peter stepped forward and intentionally bumped his foot against one of the table legs. They both swung around, Skip’s hand dropping and MJ stepping quickly to the side. Skip eyed Peter with a stare that made him want to shiver.

“I- I was just- uh- looking for a snack,” Peter stammered, his eyes flicking towards MJ as she walked past him out of the kitchen.

Skip stared at him for another long moment.

“There are fruit in the fridge, and dinner’s in an hour,” he said blandly, before turning back to the counter to begin chopping onions. Peter quickly grabbed an apple from the fridge before rushing out of the kitchen and up the stairs, the sound of children’s cartoons echoing from the living room. He paused outside of MJ’s door, then knocked softly.

She didn’t answer.

Peter saw it again several days later in the living room, and this time, Skip didn’t let go of MJ quite as quickly before turning around to catch Peter in his cold, blue-eyed stare as he lowered himself into an armchair. When MJ dashed out of the room, Peter couldn’t hold back.

“She- she doesn’t like that,” Peter said in what he hoped was a steady voice.

“Doesn’t like what?” Skip asked, thumbing through a book without looking up.

Peter took a sharp breath. “You shouldn’t touch her like that.”

Skip did look up at that, and he set his book aside on the armrest of the chair and raised his eyebrows.

“Do you really think you’re in a position to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?”

Peter’s heart rate sped up, and he blinked rapidly, as though to break the hold Skip had on him through his icy stare. Every bone in his body was screaming at him to back off, but that _look_ on MJ’s face before she’d left the room…

“It’s really wrong,” Peter said tensely. “You can’t-” He stumbled backwards as Skip rose rapidly from his chair and stalked towards Peter until he was inches away and Peter had to crane his neck to see his face. He then grabbed Peter’s upper arm into a harsh grip.

“You’d do well to mind your own damn business,” he said in a deceptively calm voice, squeezing Peter’s arm even harder. “Nod if you understand.”

Peter felt frozen in place, unable to struggle or even breathe as Skip just looked at him with that cold, detached expression.

The man shook him a little, and pain shot up Peter’s arm as he did. Peter finally nodded, and Skip shoved him away so forcefully that he stumbled backwards and his shoulder bumped painfully against the wall.

But Peter couldn’t mind his own business. Because MJ _was_ his business, and he couldn’t stand watching her grow increasingly closed off and frightened. Because Peter could tell that she was, even if she brushed him off every time he asked her about it.

He worried about the little kids, too. Had Skip been touching either of them when no one was around? He didn’t quite know how to ask them, but they seemed fine, and neither showed any signs of fear around Skip. Not the way MJ did.

So he confronted Skip again, and again, and the third time landed him a slap across the face. And the fourth, a backhand. And the next time, Skip hit harder, where people wouldn’t be able to see.

But Peter refused to stop fighting for MJ, even though he knew it was futile. There was no one they could go to, not in the mess of a world they were living in. So he kept going, and Skip kept hitting, until his arms and chest and back throbbed with bruises that were replaced before they fully healed, and eventually, he didn’t even have to say anything for Skip to lay into him; all he had to do was give the man a look, and he knew what was coming.

And then that night happened, the night before he left, when he saw Skip pressing into MJ’s back, and he could see her face, the terror that she normally buried so effectively, the hopelessness in her eyes, the heaving of her chest, and Peter ran forward and tried to shove Skip aside.

And he was dragged upstairs to his room and thrown to the floor, and Skip pulled off his belt and swung. And he kept hitting and hitting with the buckle end, until he broke skin and Peter was sobbing, but he wouldn’t beg, he wouldn’t. And then MJ burst into the room with a shriek of rage, and Skip finally, finally stopped.

  


**Current Day:**

Peter flung open the front door so hard that the handle thumped against the wall.

“MJ!” he called out frantically, ignoring the jolt of fear he felt, even after all this time, at the sickeningly familiar sights and smells of Skip’s house.

“MJ!” he called out again.

Noticing that the kitchen door was ajar, he ran over and pulled it open fully. Peter froze, gasping in shock as he observed the scene in front of him.

MJ was lying on the ground, curled on her side, her face pale and gaunt and her eyes closed. Her sweatpants were soaked with blood, some of which had pooled on the floor beneath her. Her phone lay on the ground, inches away from her hand, screen cracked.

“Oh my god,” Peter gasped. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

He fumbled for his phone, dialing nine-one-one as quickly as his shaking fingers allowed. He crouched down next to MJ as the call connected and felt her neck frantically for a pulse, as he’d learned in a first-aid tutorial in school last year.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“Please,” Peter gasped.” Please come, she’s- there’s blood- I don’t know what-”

He choked out the address when asked, his heart dropping with relief when he finally detected a weak pulse. He pulled back, finding that some of the blood pooled on the floor had soaked the knees of his jeans. 

“What the hell?”

Peter swung around, his phone slipping out of his hands when he saw Skip standing by the entrance to the kitchen.

“Skip!” Peter scrambled to his feet. “You have to help her! Look at her, she’s-”

“Shut up, shut up,” the man muttered frantically, breathes short and sharp. He didn’t move from the doorway, however, he just stared at MJ’s unconscious, blood-soaked form with a fearful, slightly manic expression on his face.

“She could die!” Peter shouted. “Do something!” He dropped down next to MJ again, feeling for her pulse a second time, just to make sure.

“Damn it, damn it,” Skip croaked, finally walking over to MJ and leaning over here. He hovered his hand over her mouth and nose to feel for air. Then, oddly, he moved his hand to her stomach and pressed down. “How the fuck...this wasn’t supposed to happen…”

Suddenly, with a horrible rush of clarity, Peter understood.

“You. It- you did this to her. You forced her- she’s preg-”

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” He stomped over to Peter, shoes marking bloody footprints on the tiles, his expression wild. Peter finally felt the familiar fear overtake his shock, and he stumbled backwards frantically, wrapping his arms around his chest.

Skip kept approaching until Peter’s back hit the wall, but the man froze at the sound of ambulance sirens growing steadily louder. The anger on Skip’s face gave way to sudden panic.

“You won’t get away with this,” Peter said, his voice shaking. 

With a wordless growl, Skip backhanded Peter across the face so hard that he could taste blood in his mouth and feel it leaking from his nose. He pressed his hand to his face as Skip grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and he couldn’t hold back a yell of pain when the man punched him on the side of his head. Peter’s vision swam as he was dragged out of the kitchen towards the door of the basement. 

“Let me go!” Peter shouted, his face and head throbbing, with blood dripping from his nose down to his chin. He tried to fight Skip off as well as he could, but the much larger man easily dragged him down the stairs to the unfinished basement and shoved him into the large, metal storage closet.

“No!” Peter yelled, trying to push his way out, but his head slammed into the back of the closet when Skip kicked him hard in the stomach. Peter groaned in pain, his eyes watering, unable to draw enough breath to call for help when he heard the paramedics enter the house.

Skip slammed the closet door shut and locked it, leaving Peter in total darkness. He lunged for the door and pounded his fists against it, but the heavy metal door barely rattled. His head and stomach aching even more harshly at the movement, Peter slumped against the back of the closet and curled in on himself. He could hear Skip shuffling around in the basement, then a sliding sound that sounded like a window opening, then the sound of it slamming shut a few moments later. He’d climbed out of the window.

Peter fumbled in his pocket for his phone before realizing with a sickening roll of his stomach that it was still in the kitchen where he’d dropped it. He suppressed a sob, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing his forehead into his knees as he felt the walls close in around him.

*****

“What’s the deal, Happy?” Tony asked, relieved at the interruption of his conversation with Hill. The relief faded into concern when he heard Happy’s reply.

“Tony, I’ve been waiting outside the school for thirty minutes. The kid’s not coming. Not answering his phone, either.”

“Does he have any extracurriculars today?” he asked tensely.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Tony tried to stem the budding panic in his chest. _Not this one, not him, too._

“What about his friend, Ted? Fred? Did you talk to him? You got his number, right?”

“I’ll get him on the line.”

The kid answered on the first ring. “Uh...hello?”

“Is this Ted?” Tony asked briskly.

“Um, it’s Ned. Who's this?”

“It’s Tony Stark- don’t freak out, we don’t have time for that,” Tony said hurriedly when the kid started stammering.

“Okay,” the kid gasped. “Okay. What can I...uh...help you with?”

“When was the last time you saw Peter?” Tony asked shortly.

The kid answered immediately.

“It was second period this morning. We were on our way to PE, and Peter’s phone buzzed and he ran off to pick it up,” the kid said in one breath, and he paused to inhale before going on. “He didn’t come back, so I thought maybe he went home? Is he okay? I tried to call him earlier, but I couldn’t get through, and-”

“What time was PE?” Tony interrupted, with a growing sense of foreboding.

“Uh...it was around nine this morning. Maybe a little earlier.”

“Okay. Okay,” Tony took a labored breath. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone, or who might have called him?”

“I’m really sorry, no. Is he okay?” the kid asked nervously.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” said Tony, trying not to snap. “Is there anything at all you can tell me? Anything Peter might have mentioned?”

Despite his growing fear, which always tended to come across as anger, Tony forced himself to keep his tone even as not to frighten the kid into silence.

“I can’t really think of anything…” the kid began. Tony’s heart sank. 

“But...” the kid went on, “he does sometimes seem worried about a friend of his. His foster sister, from before he lived with you. Maybe- maybe he went to see her.” The kid let out a gasp. “Oh, my god, I almost forgot! A few weeks ago, he asked me to cover for him so he could go visit her during school. That could be it! Um, actually, I don’t think I was supposed to tell you. Please don’t tell Peter I told you!”

“Kid, stop talking.” Tony could almost hear the kid’s mouth snap shut. “You’re not in trouble, don’t worry your oversized teenage head about it.”

The kid breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, okay, good.”

“Thanks for your help, Ned.”

“Will you- will you let me know if Peter’s okay?” the kid asked in a small voice, “I’m really worried about him.”

“I’ll keep you in the loop.” Tony hung up.

“Happy?” he barked. 

“I’m on my way to Westcott’s now, boss.”

“I’m right behind you.”

“Wait, are you going to-”

“Yup.”

Tony ended the call, and for the first time since the Snap, he stepped into the suit.

*****

It was hot inside the closet. It was really, really hot. The metal wall was uncomfortably warm against his back where he sat slumped against it, and the narrow space was nearly pitch-black; his only source of light coming from the tiny crack under the door. He hated, hated, _hated_ the dark.

Skip had come back into the house sometime after the paramedics had left. Peter could hear him thumping around upstairs, and he jolted painfully every time the man’s footsteps grew louder. 

His nose was clogged with blood, making it even harder to breath in the suffocating heat, and sweat dripped steadily down his rib cage and drenched his t-shirt. His tongue felt dry and thick, and it stuck to the roof of his mouth whenever he swallowed. His head ached where Skip had punched him, abominably so, and his vision felt blurry even though he could barely see a thing. 

Peter didn’t bother wiping away the tears that dripped down his face and mingled with the sweat, and he gasped at the sharp, throbbing pain in his abdomen as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position.

_I’m gonna die down here._

And maybe MJ was dead, too. 

And then the tears started again, the deep, wrenching sobs that shook his whole body and made his stomach hurt even worse, but he couldn’t stop, because no one was coming for him.

  



	12. Always Enough

It took Tony twelve minutes to fly to Westcott’s house, far more quickly that it would have to drive through the rush-hour traffic, despite the number of cars on the road having been halved since the Snap.

“FRI, have there been any police reports or calls from Westcott’s address?” Tony barked while in flight.

“According to my records, there was a call made this morning at approximately nine-twenty, and a teenage girl was picked up by an ambulance to be treated for hemorrhaging due to complications of a miscarriage.” 

_Miscarriage...Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ._

“Who was it?” Tony snapped, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. "What was the cause?"

“It was fourteen-year-old girl by the name of Michelle Jones, and by all reports, the miscarriage was spontaneous, not due to external factors or chromosomal abnormalities.”

Tony arrived in front of Westcott’s house, staggering a bit on the landing and pressed down on his chest to remove the suit. He moved swiftly towards the door and was seconds away from kicking it down, but it swung open before he could, and he was met by a tall, fair-haired man who appeared slightly out of breath,

“Can I help you?” the man asked, eyeing Tony suspiciously. Tony stared him down, noticing, beyond the man’s cool exterior, that there was a shiny layer of sweat coating his forehead, and he smelled distinctly of bleach. 

“You’re Westcott?” Tony asked sharply.

The man raised his eyebrows. “That’s me. Wha-”

Tony cut him off with a swift punch to the jaw. “Where’s my fucking kid, you disgusting piece of shit?”

Westcott stumbled backwards, looking momentarily stunned, before his face darkened and he swung at Tony, who quickly drew on the right arm of his suit, blocked the hit, and shoved the man up against the wall by his throat.

“Where. Is. My goddamn kid?”

“What kid? What are you-”

Tony squeezed harder. “Peter. The kid you beat half to death and tossed out of your house like an animal. Where is he?”

“I don’t know wha-” the man rasped, his eyes wide, struggling uselessly against Tony's hold.

Tony squeezed Westcott's throat harder before releasing him, and the man collapsed to the ground, coughing and spluttering. He staggered upright and lunged at Tony unsteadily, who knocked him unconscious with a swift blow to the temple with the suit arm.

Tony stepped over the man’s unconscious form and walked further into the house, approaching the doorway to the kitchen that had been left wide open. An overwhelming scent of bleach assaulted his airways, and he swallowed hard against the nausea as he stepped into the room. It was spotless at first glance, not an item out of place, but he quickly spotted two phones on the floor, and, with a jolt of panic, he recognized one of them as Peter's.

He crouched down and grabbed both phones, realizing then that the second phone with a shattered screen was of his design. And that there was dried blood coating the edges of the cracks. He easily bypassed the password of Peter's phone and scrolled through his call history, finding an outgoing call to nine-one-one, several missed calls from Happy, Ned Leeds, and one answered call from 'MJ'. Peter's texts and WhatsApp messages revealed nothing of use, so Tony slipped both phones into his pocket and backed out of the room.

He moved towards the stairs to check the second floor, but he paused when he spotted another door that had been left slightly ajar. When he pulled the door open fully, Tony could see that it led to a set of narrow, rickety stairs leading to an unfinished basement.

“Peter,” he called out as he made his cautious way down the stairs into the darkened room. Nothing. He glanced around for a light switch, spotting a string hanging from a single light bulb in the center of the room. He pulled the string with shaky hands, and a weak, yellow glow lit up the room enough for him to see that the room was fairly small and in need of dusting, its primary use a storage room for old filing cabinets, lawn equipment, and stacks of cardboard boxes. Tony spun around when he heard a faint thumping noise.

"Peter?" Tony called out, unable to mask the shaky undertone of his voice. There was no response, and Tony stood frozen in place as he desperately tried to quell the rapidly growing panic, the utter _fear_ that he'd lost the kid, just like he'd lost everybody else, because he broke everything he touched, and Peter was just one more casualty in Tony's endless cycle of destruction-

Tony jerked when the noise sounded again, once, twice, three times... Following the sound, he was led to large, heavy-duty metal storage closet pushed up against the wall on the other side of the room. He ripped the padlock off with his still armored hand and yanked open the door with fumbling fingers to find-

“Oh my god. Peter…”

The kid was slumped on the floor of the closet with his back pressed against it, face alarmingly pale, his nose and chin encrusted with blood, some of which had dripped down his neck. His jeans were also stained with blood and his t-shirt soaked with sweat, his eyes barely open.

Peter shrunk back when Tony reached towards him. “Please- please, no-” The kid let out a hoarse sob and curled in on himself. Tony paused with his hand hovering over Peter’s shoulder.

“Peter,” Tony said, very gently. “It’s me. It’s Tony.”

Peter blinked, looking slightly more alert.

“M-M-Mr. St’rk?” he croaked. 

“Yes, that’s right, Peter,” Tony said, his voice cracking. “You wanna come out of there?”

The kid’s eyes filled with tears and he wrapped his arms around his trembling torso. “Skip’s- Skip’s gonna-”

“No one’s going to hurt you, Peter, I promise,” said Tony, unable to fully mask the desperation in his voice. “Please, can you let me take you out of there?”

Finally, Peter nodded, and Tony knelt down and carefully extricated the kid from the closet. Peter was hot to the touch and absolutely drenched in sweat, and his entire body trembled involuntarily. 

“FRIDAY, called an ambulance,” Tony muttered as he lowered Peter carefully to the floor. “And the police, while you’re at it. Let them deal with that- that piece of...” Tony trailed off, pulling up the hem of the kid’s shirt in search of injuries. Peter flinched back weakly.

“No- no-”

Tony closed his eyes and took several shallow breaths, before opening his eyes and holding up his hands.

“Peter, look at me?”

The kid’s teary, glazed eyes met his.

“Who am I, Peter?” Tony asked carefully.

The kid blinked at him. “What- what kinda q-question is tha-” He let out a hoarse cough.

Tony’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Humor me, buddy.”

Peter twitched. “You’re Mist’r St’rk.”

“That’s right, kiddo,” Tony said with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Has Mr. Stark ever tried to hurt you?”

“N-n-no,” the kid said, his lip trembling. Tony moved closer to him and put a careful hand on top of his head. The kid didn’t try to pull away, so he rested his other hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“Can I take a look at you? I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Tony waited as the kid eyed him warily for several moments, before he finally relaxed minutely and nodded.

Tony breathed a sigh of relief, and he reached down to lift the kid’s shirt, one hand still resting on his shoulder. His eyes scanned Peter’s torso, and while there was a large, deep bruise forming on the kid’s stomach, he could see no sign of the source of the blood stains on his clothes

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Tony asked. “FRI-”

“N-no,” Peter said through shallow breaths. “It’s not- ‘s not my blood.”

The kid seemed pretty certain of that, but Tony could feel the heat radiating off his body, and how the kid’s torso heaved under his hand.

“FRIDAY?” he asked as he gathered Peter into his arms. “Just how far out is that ambulance? I don’t want to have to fly him in this condition.”

“The estimated time of arrival is three minutes and forty seconds.”

“MJ!” the kid suddenly gasped, struggling in Tony’s arms. “MJ, MJ…”

“Peter, who’s MJ?” Tony asked as he secured his grip around the kid so he could make his way up the stairs.

“She-she-”

_Oh, I’m an idiot. That must be Michelle Jones._

The kid passed out.

*****

Tony paced the outside of Peter’s hospital room, awaiting the arrival of the CPS representative he was expecting.

The kid was fast asleep with the help of a mild sedative; he’d regained consciousness shortly after they’d arrived at the hospital and had nearly gone into shock due to a combination of dehydration, a mild concussion, and a stint of hyperventilation, but he’d been hooked up to a saline IV and was to remain in the hospital for another day under observation.

Tony jerked up when a small, tired-looking, bespectacled woman approached, her shoes thudding dully against the floor as she stepped towards him. Tony had to take several calming breaths before speaking.

“I want custody of Michelle Jones,” he said shortly, in a voice that he hoped brooked no argument.

The woman sighed. “Mr. Stark, it’s not that simple. The situation with Mr. Westcott-”

“The sick fuck is a goddamn child rapist,” Tony said through gritted teeth. “The kid’s been through enough, let me take her in, you know I can.”

The woman looked conflicted. “Mr. Stark, I don’t doubt your capabilities, but there are procedures we have to follow, and-”

Tony sighed.

“Listen, Mrs. ...?”

“Mitchell.”

“Mrs. Mitchell. If you can just take the necessary steps to... speed up the process, you’ll find yourself with a very generous donation to Child Protective Services, on your behalf.”

The woman let out a long breath. “I’m not going to take any legal shortcuts, Mr. Stark.”

Tony made to interrupt, but she spoke again.

“But I’ll do my best to make sure that girl is in your custody as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Tony said, relieved.

The woman straightened her shoulders, pressing her lips together.

“Don’t think this has anything to do with your money,” she said sharply. “I care about these kids as much as you do.”

“I don’t doubt that you do, Mrs. Mitchell.”

The woman didn’t look reassured; if anything, her already tired features seemed to drop further. “I- I can’t help but feel responsible,” she said in a heavy tone. “I’ve met Peter before, I was the one who brought him there in the first place.” She sighed heavily. “And with what happened to that poor girl...I should have seen-”

Tony shook his head. “I doubt you could have. Can’t have been long after the Snap, either." Tony closed his eyes. “I’m sure things were pretty...unsettled.”

The woman smiled at him. It wasn’t a stiff, professional smile of the sort that he’d been bombarded with by medical personnel since he’d arrived at the hospital. It was a true smile that, albeit laced with sadness, reached her eyes, and it erased some of the lines of exhaustion on her face.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” she said. “My heart aches for these children, and it’s the worst feeling in the world to know that no matter what we do, we’ll still keep discovering cases like this. I’m glad they have someone like you in their corner.”

Tony’s throat felt tight.

“I hope I- I hope I can be enough,” he said, his voice a little choked.

“You care,” Mrs. Mitchell said firmly. “That’s always enough.”

*****

Tony leaned forward next to Peter’s hospital bed, watching carefully as the kid’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hey there, buddy,” Tony whispered when the boy’s eyes met his. “You had me real worried there for a hot minute.”

Peter blinked, his eyes darting around the room before landing back on Tony. The kid’s heart monitor sped up as he slowly came back to himself, and he started breathing faster, breaths emerging in sharp, shallow gasps.

“Pete, it’s okay,” Tony soothed, reaching over to squeeze Peter’s shoulder.

“MJ- is she- what happened-?” the kid asked hoarsely, his chest heaving. He voice broke off into a spell of dry coughs, and Tony carefully helped the kid up into a half-sitting position and grabbed the water glass from the bedside table, pushing the straw against Peter's lips. The kid drained the glass rapidly and slumped backwards, still breathing hard.

“Just take a breath,” Tony said gently. “MJ is doing okay, she just needs some time to recover.”

Peter relaxed at that, his breaths slowing, and he closed his eyes. Tony kept a hand on his shoulders, rubbing his thumb over the kid’s collarbone.

“You scare me like that again, and you’ll be grounded until you’re thirty, you hear me?” Tony’s gentle tone belied the sternness of his words. 

Peter bit his lip. “Yes, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry. MJ called me, and I just-”

“Hey, none of that,” Tony admonished. “Not your fault.” Peter nodded briefly before he winced and pressed a hand to the side of his head.

“Headache?” Tony asked quietly, glancing at the kid’s chart to check for his most recent dose of painkillers. 

“ ‘m fine,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and curling onto his side. After a moment, Peter opened his eyes and pushed himself into a more upright position against his pillow, his expression tightening.

“W-what happened to MJ” the kid asked shakily.

Tony sighed. “She had a miscarriage that resulted in heavy blood loss,” he said carefully. “She’ll be just fine, don’t worry.”

The kid didn’t respond for a moment, but his chest started heaving again and his face contorted, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“Peter….”

Tony slid his chair closer to the bed, reaching over to grasp his other shoulder.

“Skip, he- he-” Peter said through a sob. “I tried- but I couldn’t- I couldn’t-”

_Shit._

Tony got up from his chair and sat on the edge of the bed, coaxing the kid upright and pulling him carefully against his side, mindful of his bruised stomach. Peter trembled against his shoulder for several minutes, and the way he shook with the effort of suppressing his sobs made Tony feel as though he was being stabbed in the chest.

“It’s not your fault, Peter, it’s not your fault,” Tony said, over and over again, as his shirt collar grew steadily wetter with the tears that Peter couldn’t hold back.

“I thought- I thought I was gonna-” Peter’s voice cracked as he let out another sob. “I thought I was gonna die down there.” 

Tony pulled Peter closer to him and stroked his back as his sobs grew heavier. Tony leaned down so his forehead was brushing against Peter’s hair.

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” Tony murmured. “I’m sorry I didn’t come faster.”

And he should be sorry. How many hours had the kid been in that closet, bruised, dehydrated, and covered in someone else’s blood? Tony had just been tinkering in his lab for all that time, blissfully unaware that his kid was being terrorized by a sadistic bastard and then locked away for hours in the dark.

Eventually, Peter’s sobs ebbed, and Tony pushed him back by the shoulders so he could catch his eye.

“Peter,” Tony asked carefully. “I need to know if Westcott ever...ever touched you.” He clenched his teeth, dreading the answer.

“No,” said Peter, his voice shaky but certain. “It was- it was just MJ. Not the little kids, either, I’m pretty sure.” Peter took several shuddering breaths before speaking again. “He only started h-hitting me when I tried to tell him to leave her alone, but he never- never did-” the kid’s voice broke off and he bit his lip hard, as though to suppress another wave of tears. Tony gripped his shoulders tighter, fury warring with the agony of watching the kid crumble.

“What’s gonna happen to MJ?” Peter asked shakily. “She has nowhere to go, what if she ends up with someone else like S-Skip?”

“She’ll come live with us,” said Tony, reaching down to squeeze Peter’s hand.

“R-really?” the kid asked with wide, wet eyes.

“Really, kiddo.”

Peter sniffled, trying to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, noticing the IV line, frowning, and switching to his other hand.

“But what about Skip? What if he-?” Peter couldn’t get the words out, as though what he was picturing was too horrible to voice.

Tony pulled Peter closer so his head was resting on his shoulder.

“The police brought him in for questioning. Apparently, the sick fu-freak can’t keep his story straight. Not with a concussion, at any rate. He’s in custody, and that’s where he’ll stay, if I have anything to say about it...”

Tony stopped talking when he felt Peter shudder in his arms. The kid was quiet for a while, breathing against Tony’s shoulder, and the trembling slowly eased.

“Is MJ at this hospital?” Peter finally asked, pulling away to grab a tissue from the bedside table.

“No,” said Tony. “She was brought to a different one that has the best...maternity unit. She needs to spend a few days under observation.”

“Can you go see her?” Peter asked in a tentative voice. “I don’t want her to be alone.”

“Of course, kiddo,” said Tony, relieved that there was something, however inadequate, that he could do. “Happy is keeping an eye on her, so I’ll have him switch places with me.”

“It’s fine, I don’t need-”

“No arguments,” Tony interrupted. “I’m not leaving you here alone. FRI- text Happy, ‘kay?”

Peter flushed slightly, his shoulders relaxing. Tony pulled the kid against him and held him there quietly for a long while.

They both glanced up at the sound of a throat clearing to see Happy standing at the entrance of the hospital room. He glanced down at Peter and gave him a pained smile.

“Doing all right, kid?” Happy asked.

“F-fine,” said Peter, biting his lip.

The kid’s eyes looked watery again, and, before Tony could chicken out, he pulled Peter into tight hug. Slowly, the kid lifted his arms to return the hug, squeezing back gently. After several moments, Tony pulled back and ruffled the kid’s hair.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” he said with a grin, standing up. Peter gave him a tremulous smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Tony breathed deeply.

“Anytime, kid. Anytime.”

*****

The girl was awake when Tony entered the room.

Her expression didn’t change when she saw him, but Tony noticed her stiffen and pull back slightly. He sat in the chair next to her bed and pushed it back several inches, laying his hands flat on his lap.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Miss Jones,” Tony said with a careful grin. “Or can I call you Michelle?”

The girl studied him for a moment before nodding, staring at him through narrowed eyes. Tony was about to introduce himself when the girl cut in. 

“Is Peter okay?” she asked hoarsely, propped up uncomfortably on her elbows.

Tony reached forward and quickly pressed the button on the side of the bed to raise it up a bit, pulling back before the girl had time to flinch away.

“Peter’s just fine,” Tony said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “He’s just resting, and he insisted, upon pain of death, that I come to see you myself.”

“The kids?” she asked, her fists clenched around her blanket.

“The kids are fine. CPS tracked down a relative of theirs out of state, and Westcott won’t be seeing the outside of a cell for a long time.”

The girl flinched at Westcott’s name and turned her head as if to hide from Tony, her jaw working. Tony waited, keeping his stance loose and demeanor calm, a practice he’d worked down to a science since Peter had come to live with him.

She turned back to face him, slightly shiny eyes the only indication that anything was wrong.

“Why are you here?” the girl asked tonelessly.

Her face was flat, unreadable, and if Tony hadn’t known better, he might have believed that she was utterly unruffled.

But her eyes gave her away. They were very dark, and the left lid kept twitching at the corner, and something about them made her seem far older than she was. Mostly, her eyes gave away her fear, and it was Tony’s responsibility to make her feel safe.

If that didn’t terrify him, his name wasn’t Stark.

Tony chewed over his words before he spoke.

“Well,” he began, “I’m here to make an offer.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed.

“Offer?”

“Yes,” Tony said calmly. “I’m offering you a place to stay at Stark Tower, with Peter and myself.”

The girl’s eyes grew wide, her flat affect briefly giving way to an expression of mild surprise.

“Why?” she asked, her voice suspicious, as though she expected some sort of catch.

“You need somewhere to stay,” Tony responded with a quick smile. “And nothing would make Peter more happy.”

Her shoulders loosened slightly at that, and she looked down at her hands, away from Tony’s gaze.

He leaned forward. 

“Honestly, Michelle, Peter wants you to be safe, and _I_ want you to be safe.”

The girl looked up sharply at that.

“Why do you care?” she asked in a brittle voice.

Tony rubbed a hand over his chin.

“Why does anyone care about anyone?” he asked. “You’re a person, and you deserve better.”

The girl’s eyes grew shiny again

“So, do you accept my offer?” Tony asked.

For one long moment, Tony half-expected her to decline.

“Yes,” she whispered.

  



	13. People Who Need People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I steal the chapter title from Barbra Streisand? Yes. Am I sorry? Not a bit :) Hope you enjoy.  
Warning: brief mention of rape/sexual assault.

Peter stared at the doorway of his hospital room as Tony’s steps grew fainter, feeling oddly bereft.

_Stop being such a baby. You_ asked _him to go._

He clenched his hand around the hem of his blanket, staring at his lap, uncomfortably aware of Happy’s gaze boring into him.

“You all right, kid?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, looking up cautiously through his lashes. 

“No, you’re not.”

Peter straightened up a little too quickly. “Wha-”

Happy held up his hands. “I’m just saying that no one expects you to be okay after...what happened.”

Peter bit his lip, glancing back at his lap. 

Happy sighed. “Listen, kid, I gotta say this because I know Tony won’t.”

Peter looked up again, furrowing his brow.

“If you’re ever in a situation like this again, you _need_ to tell someone, you don’t run off on your own. You call Tony, you call me, you call Rhodey. Hell, you call your friend’s mom if you have to.”

Peter felt his throat tighten, and he bit hard on his lip to stop it from trembling. Happy leaned forward, looking alarmed.

“Hey, hey, kid, I’m not blaming you for anything.” His hand hovered over Peter’s arm. “I know you were in a bad situation for a while, and you had no adults you could trust, but that’s not the case anymore, okay?”

Peter nodded, taking a shuddering breath.

“Look at me, kid.” Peter’s eyes traveled upward reluctantly to meet Happy’s gaze. “We all care about you, and none of us want to see you get hurt like this again.” He smiled wryly. “I know for a fact that my blood pressure can’t handle it.”

Peter sighed, leaning back against his pillows, but he didn’t look away. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” he said, his lips quirking. Happy gave him a crooked smile.

“It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to need...people.” He laid his hand on Peter’s mattress next to his pillow. “That’s something we’ve all had to learn.”

*****

Mr. Stark took Peter home the next day, upon strict orders to enforce bed rest and fluid intake. Peter found himself bundled in bed and plied with bottles of water and Gatorade before he could so much as protest.

Peter did feel better, but still a bit weak and shaky, and he couldn't quite stem the anxiety that had been creeping up on him since he'd shown up at Skip's house after MJ's call. Sometimes, when it got too quiet, he could almost feel the suffocating heat of the closet, hear Skip thumping around upstairs, see MJ's motionless body on the kitchen floor... Peter clenched his jaw and grabbed his phone to respond to Ned’s frantic barrage of text, a warm feeling growing in his chest at his friend’s concern.

“Pete, put down your phone, I want you to drink at least half a bottle of that blue highlighter juice before you send another text,” said Mr. Stark, who was sitting at the edge of his bed, watching him as though he’d fall over at any moment.

Peter let his phone drop against his pillow and frowned at the man, who raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards the bottles on his night table. Peter’s thirst outweighing his stubborn urge to ignore orders, he downed more than half the bottle before setting it aside.

He looked back at Mr. Stark, chewing his lip.

“Is MJ really coming to stay with us?” he asked in a small voice. 

“Yup, it’s all settled, kiddo” Mr. Stark said with a grin. “Angsty teenager number two, coming right up.”

Peter sat up straighter, a smile pulling at his lips. “It’s not that I didn’t believe you,” said Peter earnestly. “It’s just- sometimes things don’t work out, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” said Tony. “But when you’re me, the rules don’t always apply.” He smirked

Peter rolled his eyes, but he grinned more widely, grabbing his phone to send out another text.

“So what’s your friend into, Pete?” Tony asked, shifting into a more comfortable position.

“Hmm?” Peter asked, glancing up from his phone,.

“What’s she into? Video games? Water Polo? Cooking meth?”

“Wha- have you been watching Breaking Bad again?” Peter asked, trying not to laugh.

“Hey, it’s a good show,” Mr. Stark responded with a shrug. “Seriously, though, tell me what she likes so I can make sure she gets it.”

“Oh,” Peter said softly. “Well, she loves drawing. She drew my face once and it looked _exactly_ like me, but she wouldn’t let me keep it ‘cause she thought it wasn’t good enough.”

“She sounds like a true artist,” Mr. Stark remarked.

“Yeah, she’s...really talented,” Peter said, smiling.

“Ooh, do I detect a budding romance?” Mr. Stark asked teasingly.

“No,” Peter muttered, his shoulders stiffening.

“Sure about that, bud? ‘Cause-”

“No!” Peter said angrily. He shoved his blanket aside and jumped to his feet, his knees wobbling.

Mr. Stark held his hands up, looking startled. He slid to the edge of the bed and got to his feet. “Peter-”

“She was all I had,” Peter cut in quietly. He stared at the floor.

“She’s like- she’s like what I always thought a sister would be. She was the only one I-” Peter swallowed hard. “I saw what was going on, I knew what Skip was doing to her.” Peter paused to take a shallow breath. “He kept- he kept t-touching her, and I could see how scared she was, but I couldn’t stop him- he got so _angry_ when I tried, and I was _stupid_ enough to believe that he’d leave her alone if I kept my mouth shut about him h-h-hitting me, and about what he- what he did to her, but then all this happened and I could have prevented it if I’d just said something-” 

Peter’s voice caught in his throat, and he pressed his lips together, hating the tears that were welling up in his eyes. What right did he have to cry when MJ was the one who’d been hurt so badly? When he could have easily done something to prevent it if he hadn’t been such an idiot?

“Peter, I’m sorry.”

Peter glanced up to see Mr. Stark standing right in front of him, face tight with concern.

“That was a really stupid thing for me to say,” Mr. Stark reached out hesitantly to grip Peter’s shoulder. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, a few tears leaking out.

“Pete, please look at me.” Mr. Stark tapped Peter’s chin, and he looked up reluctantly.

“None of this was your fault,” he said firmly. Peter shook his head in denial, glancing away.

“Nope, eyes up,” Mr. Stark said, cupping Peter’s chin in his hand to tilt his face upward. “The only person at fault here is that sick excuse for a human being. No one else.”

“But I could’ve-”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Peter exhaled and dropped his forehead against Mr. Stark’s chest. He relaxed slightly when the man cupped the back of his neck.

“It’s not your fault,” Mr. Stark said again, his voice quiet. “And I’m sorry for what I said before. It was idiotic.”

“S’okay,” Peter mumbled against Mr. Stark’s shirt. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mr. Stark replied, squeezing more tightly. “I’m a dumbass.”

Peter huffed a laugh. “No, you’re not.”

“Hey, I’m Tony Stark, so what I say, goes. If I say I’m a dumbass, then I’m a dumbass.”

Peter snorted, letting Mr. Stark pull him closer. 

“If I hear you blaming yourself again, I’ll make you run laps around the garage.”

“No, you won’t,” Peter murmured, face still pressed against Mr. Stark’s chest.

“Probably not,” the man admitted, laying a hand on Peter’s back. “But I will definitely wag my finger at you.” He reached both arms around Peter to gather him into a proper hug.

“The horror,” Peter said with a shaky smile, and he reached out to return the hug.

*****

“Don’t you dare hang up on me this time, Stark.”

Tony sighed tiredly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and securing the phone between his ear and shoulder. “I’m the one who called you, Hill, why would I do that just to hang up?”

Tony could practically hear Hill rolling her eyes. “Don’t ask me to try to analyze your behavior; you’d be Freud's biggest nightmare.”

“I like to think I would have been his star case study, actually.”

Hill didn’t dignify that with a response. “Have you thought over what I said in our last conversation?” she asked briskly.

Tony exhaled through his nose. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve been a little preoccupied, lately, so-”

“With what?” she snapped. “What could possibly be so-”

“Kids,” Tony blurted out. “I’m surprised SHIELD doesn’t already know.”

“I told you I’m not Fury, Stark, I don’t give a crap about your personal life, and SHIELD has no interest in expending its limited resources on your shenanigans.”

“Fair,” said Tony. “But I was serious about the kids. I’ve got two of them now, and getting a pair of traumatized teens through the day requires my full attention at the moment.”

There was a brief pause. 

“You took in kids?” Hill asked in a strange tone. “Huh. Never knew you had it in you.”

Tony felt himself flinch; his dreams were still haunted by images of his wife, and the daughter he should have had. A girl with dark hair and eyes like his, but with Pepper’s cheekbones and smile and determination. But he also had a kid sleeping upstairs, still recovering from an ordeal that Tony had failed to prevent, and Happy would be bringing him another, possibly more traumatized one in less than three hours.

“Well, I have them,” he said gruffly. “And they need me, so...that’s where it’s at right now.”

Hill didn’t speak for a moment, and Tony stared at the wall long enough to be able to convince himself that the stinging in his eyes were from going too long without blinking.

“I’ll give you some time,” said Hill. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. We’ve got Romanoff on board, now, and we won't hesitate to set her on you.”

A smile rose unbidden on Tony’s face. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

He ended the call and turned his phone facedown on the table, allowing himself to be absorbed in his work. So much so that he nearly jumped out of his seat when a throat cleared behind him. He spun around to find Rhodey at the entrance of the lab.

“Damn it, I forgot you were coming,” he said, rubbing his forehead. Rhodey shrugged, stepping forward and pulling up a chair. He eyed Tony carefully for a moment.

“You’re looking better.”

Tony blinked. “Am I?”

“Yeah, you seem a bit less...weighed down.”

“Huh,” said Tony. He cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, I made you new leg braces and repaired the glitch. They’re on that table over there if you want to try them.”

“What glitch?” asked Rhodey, frowning.

“You’ve been favoring your left leg. You haven’t noticed?”

Rhodey shrugged. “Guess not. How would you have known, anyway? I haven’t been here in-”

“I noticed it the last time you were here. It was glaringly obvious, actually. Can’t imagine how you didn’t-”

Rhodey rolled his eyes, smiling. “Thanks, Tones, really.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Tony, tilting his chair back and darted his eyes away from Rhodey’s piercing gaze.

“What’s going on with you?”

Tony glanced back at him cautiously. “What do you mean?”

“You look better, but you’re practically vibrating. What’s up?”

“I’m getting another kid,” Tony blurted. It was only when he voiced it that he truly felt the full effects of the anxiety he’d been pushing back.

Rhodey’s eyes widened. “Really? How-”

“It’s one of the kids that was living with Westcott,” Tony cut in, his jaw clenching at the mention of that man. “He- well- he raped her, and she almost died from complications of a miscarriage.”

“Jesus,” said Rhodey, closing his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Is she doing okay?”

“As well as she could be, I guess. Happy’s bringing her over in a couple hours.”

Rhodey leaned back in his seat, letting out a heavy sigh. “My God. That’s just- that’s really screwed up. I can’t…”

“You’re telling me.” Tony squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his forehead with his palm.

Rhodey eyed him carefully for a moment. “What’s on your mind?”

Tony inhaled sharply. “I- I don’t- I don’t know if I can do this. Peter’s one thing, but what if I end up messing her up even more? I’m not qualified for- I can’t- what if I ruin this just like I’ve ruined every other goddamn thing in my life?” Tony buried his face in his hands, no longer attempting to mask his anxiety. It wasn’t as though he could really hide anything from Rhodey, anyhow.

Tony felt his friend's hand land lightly on his shoulder. “You’re not gonna mess this up, Tony.”

Tony lifted his face from his hands. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you.” Rhodey squeezed his shoulder tightly enough that it was just on the edge of painful. “I know that when something matters to you, you throw everything you have into it. When you fail, it’s only because it was never possible in the first place.”

Tony stared at him. “But what about all those times I-”

Rhodey grabbed his other shoulder and shook him once. “It. Doesn’t. Matter. Stop harping on the past and focus on what’s right in front of you.” He paused to take a breath. “You’ve done great with Peter, so there’s no reason to think-”

Tony pulled back a little, narrowing his eyes. “How would you know? You haven’t really seen Peter much. For all you know-”

Rhodey silenced him with a look. “I don’t need to see you two together to see how much you care. I know you’ve given him everything you have and you’re both better off for it. You’ll do the same thing with the girl, there’s no doubt in my mind.”

Tony stared at him silently for a long moment, his shoulders slowly relaxing. “It’s kind of concerning how much blind faith you have in me, pal. I could so easily rope you into a life of crime and you wouldn’t even question-” He was cut off by Rhodey cuffing him on the back of the head.

*****

Peter paced back and forth anxiously by the penthouse elevator. Happy had gone to pick up MJ from the hospital, and they were due back any minute. He wasn’t sure what Mr. Stark was doing, exactly, but Peter sensed that the man had wanted to give him and MJ some time alone.

Peter scrambled forward when the elevator doors slid open, revealing Happy carrying a suitcase, and MJ standing behind him. Happy stepped out and moved to the side to let MJ pass. She walked out slowly, and Peter could tell that Happy was consciously holding back from helping her.

While MJ looked a whole lot better than she had the last time he’d seen her, she still seemed...fragile. It was an odd look for her; Peter had grown so accustomed to her tough exterior that it was strange to see her like this.

Peter approached MJ cautiously, and he stopped several paces away from her.

“I’m so sorry, MJ,” he said hoarsely. MJ just looked at him, furrowing her eyebrows slightly.

“I should’ve- I should have said something, or told someone, but I was afraid that- that Skip would hurt you, and-” Peter’s voice caught in his throat.

“Shut up, Peter,” MJ said shortly. He stared at her, startled, and she closed the distance between them, allowing Peter to pull her into a hug. She didn’t hug back, but she rested her chin on his shoulder.

_She’s okay. She’s finally safe._

MJ’s room had been set up next door to Peter’s, and after Happy dropped off her bag, he backed quietly out of the room.

“D’you…want any help unpacking?” Peter asked tentatively as he hovered by the doorway. 

“Sure,” MJ said, as she knelt down to open her suitcase. They worked quietly for the next while, sorting through MJ’s things and organizing them carefully. MJ paused next to the desk, her hand hovering over the brand-new art supplies that Mr. Stark had ordered for her. She turned back towards Peter, her eyes wide.

Peter grinned at her. “I told Mr. Stark you’re into drawing, and I guess he went a little overboard.”

She let out a breath. “This stuff is- really expensive.”

“Well, he is, like, a trillionaire, so…”

MJ let out a short laugh. “Guess I can’t complain when his socioeconomic status benefits me.” 

She drew back from the desk and continued unpacking, and, between the two of them, they made short work of the job. When they were done, she paused beside the bed, eyeing Peter for a moment.

“Thank you, Peter,” she said quietly.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. “For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“You saved my life.”

Peter shut his mouth, staring at her.

“I would’ve- I probably would’ve bled out if you hadn’t come when you did,” said MJ, words emerging through sharp, short breaths. “If I’d been thinking straight, I would have called an ambulance myself, but-”

“I should’ve gotten there faster,” Peter muttered. “ I should have just told someone and stopped the whole thing before-”

“Peter, shut up, seriously,” said MJ sharply. “It's- it's hard enough without you blaming yourself. None of this shit was your fault, okay? You got hurt, too, and I know it was because you tried to stop him.”

Peter exhaled slowly, walking over to sit at the edge of her bed. She sat down next to him, and they both remained there in silence for a long, long time.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the finish line, folks. Hope you enjoyed, and I'd be thrilled to hear your feedback in the comments.


	14. The Kids Are Alright

At four AM, Tony gave up on sleep and trudged tiredly to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee. He’d definitely be having multiple cups today.

He was a coward. 

He’d intended to give Peter and Michelle some time alone when the girl had arrived the previous day, but he'd stayed away longer than planned, long enough that by the time he’d made his way upstairs, there had only been time for a quick hello before the kids had gone to bed.

He’d kept his distance because he had no idea what to say.

But there was no hiding, now. He would stay in this kitchen, chugging mug after mug of coffee until they came downstairs, and actually face them, actually talk to them, like the guardian he was supposed to be.

The two of them came down together around eight, and Tony plastered on a smile, because the last thing they needed was to see him as any less than confident in his ability to...to…what? Protect them? Be a halfway decent guardian?

“Sleep well?”

Peter gave him a tired smile. “Yeah, not bad.” Tony glanced towards Michelle, who shrugged minutely.

_Guess that’s a no._

Tony cleared his throat. “So, you hungry? We got cereal, we got waffles, we got eggs…”

Michelle didn’t voice her preference, but Peter grabbed two different boxes of cereal, and when set in front of her, she poured herself a bowl.

Tony quickly prepared two mugs of hot chocolate, figuring the kids would drink it if it was there. He clunked the mugs in front of them, nodding at Peter’s thanks, and stepped back casually, accidentally brushing against Michelle’s arm as he did.

The girl jolted wildly, flinging her hands up in front of her and knocking over her cereal bowl in the process.

_Damn it. Shit. Shit._

Tony took a wide step backwards, holding his palms out in front of him. Michelle was frozen in her seat, arms wrapped around her chest, staring at the steadily growing puddle of milk on the table in front of her.

Peter was frozen too, his fist clenched around the handle of his spoon, eyes darting back and forth between them.

Tony drew in a breath to say something, despite being utterly at a loss for what to say, but before he could, Michelle stood up abruptly and reached for the roll of paper towels on the counter next to her.

“Don’t- I’ll take care of that,” said Tony tensely, his palms still held out. She pulled her hand back.

“S-sorry, I’m just gonna…” She left the room as quickly as she could without running.

Tony dropped into the seat beside the one Michelle had just vacated, letting out a long breath.

“Damn it,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He almost set down his elbow into the puddle of milk on the table, pulling away at the last moment. Peter held out a wad of napkins.

Tony grunted in response and mopped up the mess half-heartedly.

“Mr. Stark?"

Tony looked up at Peter, forcing down the tense expression on his face when he saw the hesitant curl of the kid's shoulders.

“She- it wasn’t- I- I don’t think that had anything to do with you,” said Peter, pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.

Tony furrowed his brow, and Peter chewed his lip for a moment before continuing. “I mean, I can’t read her mind, but I still get scared sometimes because of- because of Skip, and I get...jumpy, you know?” The kid clenched his jaw and looked away. “It’s probably the same for her.”

Tony exhaled slowly, unable to suppress a faint smile. “I’ve said this before, kiddo, are you sure you’re only fourteen?”

Peter looked up and grinned at him, although it didn’t entirely erase the troubled line between his eyes.

“You doing okay, buddy?” Tony asked quietly. The smile slipped off Peter’s face. 

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “MJ’s the one who needs...needs...ugh, I don’t know. What happened to her was so much worse-” Peter cut himself off, swallowing audibly.

Tony shook his head, setting aside the sodden wad of napkins. “Listen, Peter. Just because what happened to her was worse, it doesn’t mean what happened to you wasn’t bad. You get me?”

Peter met his eyes, although he looked no less troubled. “I don’t...I don’t want it to _matter_. I just want to be there for her without getting caught up in my own-” Peter paused, tightening his jaw. “I’ll get over it.”

“God, Peter.” Tony stood up and walked around the table to sit beside Peter. The kid turned his head to look at him, slightly confused.

“You don’t wanna go down that road, kiddo, believe me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve spent more than enough energy trying to pretend that everything I’d buried wasn’t constantly coming back to bite me.” Tony cleared his throat, and Peter lowered his eyes, though not quickly enough to hide their glassy sheen. Tony lifted his hand slowly and rested it gently on the kid’s shoulder. “You’ve been through a hell of a lot, buddy, and you’re allowed to be...not okay.” Tony coughed. “Lord, that was _way_ too much mushy crap for this early in the morning.”

Peter snorted, his posture relaxing slightly. Tony squeezed his shoulder. “I’m so sorry all this happened to you, kiddo. I’ll do better from now on.”

Peter’s head shot up, and he pulled his shoulder back. “What- why are you apologizing? This wasn’t your fault. Didn’t you spend like seventy-two hours straight telling me it wasn’t my fault?”

Tony sighed. “If I’d been paying more attention, I would have realized you were gone before-”

“No,” Peter interrupted. “Listen, MJ just said this to me yesterday; it’s hard enough without you blaming yourself. It’s not your fault, so stop.” The kid looked down at his lap and pressed his palms on his knees.

Tony let out a bark of laughter, and Peter glanced up, a confused smile on his face. His grin widened when Tony reached over to ruffle his hair.

*****

Two weeks went by, and Tony had barely managed to catch Michelle’s eye, let alone have an actual conversation with her that lasted more than a minute.

_And I thought Peter was complicated_, Tony thought, as he glanced up from his tablet to watch the kids out of the corner of his eye. 

Peter was absorbed in his algebra homework, his tongue poking out between his teeth as he erased several lines of pencil. Michelle had started at Midtown earlier in the week, but she’d completed her homework, so she was curled in the armchair next to the couch, apparently absorbed in a book. However, it didn’t take long for Tony to notice that her eyes weren’t moving.

She glanced up, as though she had sensed him looking, and Tony was alarmed to see tears on her face. She wasn’t sobbing; her breaths were even, and when she touched her face, she seemed startled when her hand came away wet.

Tony opened his mouth to ask if she was all right, but she quickly looked back at her book, wiping her eyes surreptitiously with her sleeve.

By all appearances, the kid wanted to be left alone. But how could Tony really know that was what she needed? What did he know about kids who’d been hurt so extensively by the people who were supposed to care for them, who had watched their entire world fade before their eyes, that by all rights they should be wailing and screaming and tearing apart everything in their path?

It was easier with Peter. He was certainly still haunted by what had happened; his nightmares had grown more frequent, and he’d been somewhat less receptive to Tony’s attempts at comfort, turning his head away and trying to pretend he hadn’t been crying. Even so, it was clear that, by nature, he was talkative and affectionate, and Tony just had to continue to make him feel safe enough to re-emerge from his shell.

But Michelle was different. She maintained an unreadable, uncaring facade, projecting to the world that nothing mattered, that nothing could touch her. Tony could almost fall for it, if he didn’t know what had happened to her, and if he hadn’t seen her looking so small and vulnerable in the hospital bed. 

Suddenly, it came to him.

He needed backup, and he knew exactly where to get it.

“All right, squad,” Tony said, standing up. “You have school tomorrow, wanna head off to bed?”

Peter closed his notebook over his pencil and rolled out his neck, but Michelle moved more slowly, flipping a page or two before setting her book aside, as though to let him know that she’d go to bed when she was good and ready.

It made Tony smile, because that was something he could understand.

Once the kids were safely ensconced in their rooms. Tony picked up the phone.

“Agent Romanoff, you miss me?”

*****

This was the best idea Tony had had all year.

Peter nearly imploded with excitement when _the_ Black Widow showed up in the lab. Michelle’s eyes widened before she quickly glanced away, and Tony noticed that her cheeks were tinged red.

So Natasha had herself some fan-kids.

“It’s been a while, Stark,” Natasha said as she considered the room. Tony grinned at her. “Good to see you too, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha rolled her eyes at the moniker.

“Hey, kids, meet the lovely and terrifying Natasha Romanoff, AKA Black Widow.”

The kids were both staring, bug-eyed, even Michelle, and Tony suppressed a guffaw. Natasha gave a small wave, her face impassive, but Tony liked to think that she was flattered by the hero-worship.

“Oh my god,” Peter said, scrambling over and nearly tripping over his feet in the process. “You’re, like, the coolest person ever. My friend Ned is basically your biggest fan. Not that I’m not your fan! But he has all these posters in his room- No! Not that kind of poster, just- just…”

The kid’s voice trailed off, his face flaming, and Natasha smiled at him and held out a hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

Peter smiled shyly as he shook her hand, glancing over at Tony with his mouth slightly open.

Tony smirked at him, and the kid turned, if possible, even redder. He pulled his hand back, and Natasha craned her neck to see Michelle on the other side of the room, who was still sitting there, staring.

“So, you’re Michelle?” Natasha asked in a casual tone. The girl nodded and stood up to hesitantly approach. She shook Natasha’s proffered hand, face calm, but her eyes darting back and forth. Natasha let go of her hand and studied her for a moment.

“Nice grip,” she remarked. Michelle looked startled. “You might have a knack for knife-work. Shooting, too. Want to learn?”

The girl met Natasha’s eyes, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she nodded firmly.

“Yes,” she said. “That would be- that would be cool.”

Natasha nodded back at her with a quirk of her lips.

She hung around for a while, actually sitting down to dinner with them and somehow managing to draw both Peter and Michelle into conversation.

Tony would have been envious if he wasn’t so relieved.

After the kids went to bed, Tony and Natasha hung around in the kitchen, sipping dessert wine, because, damn it, Tony could handle four-point-two percent alcohol once in a blue moon without getting shitfaced.

“You’ve done a good job with them,” she said, setting her glass down.

Tony grimaced. “Have I, though?” He folded his arms. “Feels to me like I’m constantly screwing up.”

“You aren’t,” said Natasha evenly. “You’re not perfect, obviously, no one knows that better than I do.”

Tony mock-scowled at her.

“But anyone can see that Peter adores you, and Michelle, well, maybe adore is not the word, but she trusts you.”

Tony furrowed his brow.

“Does she? The kid’s a closed book.” Tony unfolded his arms. “Most days, I can’t tell if she thinks I’m funny or is secretly planning my assassination.”

Natasha rolled her eyes.

“The fact that she’ll relax in the same room as you for more than five minutes at a time is a pretty strong indicator.”

“Huh,” said Tony. He caught her eye. “I guess you would know.”

Natasha stared back at him, her expression unreadable.

“You and that kid are two of a kind,” Tony remarked. “Can’t get a read on either of you.”

“Then I guess we’re doing something right,” Natasha said, smirking. Tony rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, though, Nat, thanks for doing this.”

Natasha pressed her palms flat on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “The kids are all of our responsibilities, Tony.”

Tony clenched his jaw, a familiar pain lacing his chest as he remembered...remembered the child he’d felt growing and kicking in Pepper’s belly. The daughter he’d never get to meet. But he had these kids, now, who he might not have helped create nor raise, but who needed him desperately and who he couldn’t quite imagine life without.

“Well, good,” said Tony gruffly, “‘cause that girl needs someone, and I can’t think of anyone better than you to, you know, get her talking.”

“I’ll be back,” said Natasha with a slight smile. “I’ll be taking her to the shooting range, and Peter will probably want to join us at some point.”

“Oh, lord, now there’ll be two of you,” Tony said, feigning alarm.

Natasha smirked again, and Tony stood up to clap her on the shoulder. She blinked, glancing down at his hand. 

“You need anything, I’m here,” Tony said, stepping back.

“Same to you, Stark,” said Natasha with a nod.

She slipped out of the room in that silent way she had, and Tony felt his lips curl into an involuntary smile.

*****

Tony couldn’t sleep. Again. It wasn’t even nightmares keeping him awake, nor the horrible, cyclical thoughts that so often plagued him. He just...couldn’t sleep. He lay there, anxiety steadily building, as the clock ticked closer to three AM.

_Figures_, Tony thought sourly, reaching back to flip over his pillow. _When I actually try to be responsible and get some sleep for the sake of the kids…_

Tony soon gave up on sleep and heaved himself out of bed with a groan, making his way down to the kitchen for a (non-alcoholic) drink.

En route, he noticed a soft light glowing from the living room, and when he drew closer, he could see Michelle’s dark cloud of hair peeking over the armchair she favored. The girl didn’t turn her head, but, judging by the stiffening of her shoulders, she obviously knew he was there.

Tony walked quietly to the kitchen, and, after a pause, reached for the herbal tea that Michelle had picked out and filled two mugs. He carried them carefully to the living room, walking slowly and deliberately enough for there to be no mistaking his entry.

Michelle looked up when he placed a mug in the coffee table in front of her, pencil poised over her sketchbook. 

“Thanks,” she said, setting the sketchbook on the armrest and grasping the mug. Tony lowered himself onto the couch opposite her.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked casually, taking a sip.

“Can’t stay asleep,” she muttered. “Kept waking up.”

_Nightmares, obviously_, thought Tony. He didn’t say anything; if she wanted him to know, she’d tell him, he knew that much about her.

“You know, this stuff isn’t half-bad, for decaf,” Tony remarked, after a long pause.

“I’m trying to avoid developing a caffeine addiction,” said Michelle, the side of her mouth turning up.

Tony chuckled. “Wish I’d been that forward thinking when I was your age.”

“My mom couldn’t get by without at least two cups of coffee every day,” Michelle said, her eyes softening. “She was always telling me not to end up like that.” Michelle set down the mug and picked up her sketchbook, flipping it to a blank page.

“Smart woman,” Tony said, lifting a leg to rest it on the coffee table. “Was she into art, like you?” He tilted his head towards the sketchbook.

“No,” Michelle replied, glancing up from it. “But she sang. She used to-” the girl broke off, blinking hard and clenching her jaw. She looked back down at the sketchbook.

“I’m sorry,” said Tony, feeling like a jackass. The girl shrugged, peeking up at him before looking away.

Tony sighed as he leaned back and took another sip of tea.

_I’m an idiot._

He should have known better than to bring up the girl’s mother. She’d lost her less than a year ago, for Christ’s sake, what had he been thinking-?

“I’ve never met my dad,” Michelle said suddenly. Tony looked at her, surprised that she’d offered that much. “I don’t even know who he is. My mom didn't even know his name, but she said I look like him.”

“Have you ever wanted to?” Tony asked carefully. “Meet him, I mean.”

She shook her head. “Not really. My mom was always enough.” Her eyes darkened again, and she glanced down again, digging the lead of the pencil into the paper.

“I could find him for you,” said Tony, feeling oddly pained. “Assuming he’s still alive. Just say the word, and-”

“No,” Michelle said firmly. “I don’t- I don’t need him.” She gave him a strange look; it seemed furtive, shy, even, before looking back down at her sketchbook.

Tony felt an inexplicable warmth expand in his chest. 

After several more quiet moments, silence only marred by the faint scratching of lead against paper, Michelle set down her sketchpad and yawned, leaning her head back against the chair.

“Want to head back to bed?” Tony suggested, resting his other foot on the coffee table.

“Can’t,” Michelle said shortly, “My mind’s too- I just can’t.”

Tony thought hard for a moment. “You know, there’s something I used to do when I was younger that always cleared my head.”

“What was it?” she asked tiredly.

“Chess. Ever played?”

She shook her head.

“Want to learn?”

“Yeah, okay.” Michelle pushed her hair out of her face and sat up straighter.

Tony fetched his chessboard from the nearby closet, the old one that had once been his father’s, and set it out on the coffee table. Michelle caught on to the rules quickly, and although she lost the two games they played, Tony had a feeling she might give him a run for his money one day.

The girl looked slightly put-out when he won for the second time, and, in that moment, she suddenly looked far more like the teenager she was rather than a miniature adult burdened by the weight of loss and trauma.

Tony had to suppress a smile.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” Michelle said, carefully placing her chess pieces back into the box. “Thanks for- thanks.” She looked at the floor.

Tony smiled. “Anytime, kid.” 

Michelle grabbed her sketchbook and walked towards the door, but she paused to rip out a page and press it into Tony’s hand. 

“Call me MJ,” she said without looking at him, and walked out immediately after.

Tony held the paper out in front of him and drew back in surprise. She had drawn a startlingly detailed sketch of his face, down to the scruff on his jaw and the lines around his eyes. There was something else, though, something that gave him pause, until he realized that, in the moment she had captured, he looked peaceful.

Tony’s eyes burned.

*****

And they continued to burn as he watched the two kids walk out of the courthouse doors, several paces ahead of him.

He wasn’t sure if it was due to pride at what they’d just done, or horror at what they had said.

Due to their statuses as minors, the kids had been permitted to give their testimonies in a private setting pre-trial. They had both stood before the judge unflinchingly, first MJ, then Peter, and told their stories nary a waver in their voices. 

Tony had still been able to see Peter’s hands clenched so tightly behind his back that his knuckles turned white, and he’d heard the way MJ’s voice had taken on a robotic quality as she spoke.

But they’d told their stories, and although the trial had not yet taken place, it was pretty clear that Westcott had no chance of getting off, and that he’d be locked away for a long time. Preferably for life, but that would probably be too much to expect.

Even so, Tony knew with every fiber of his being that if Westcott walked free tomorrow, his kids would never have to face that man again, because he’d kill him first.

And the kids were standing tall, shoulder to shoulder as they walked toward the car Happy was waiting in. MJ muttered something into Peter’s ear that made him chuckle, and the tightness in Tony’s chest eased.

Because his kids would be all right.

  



	15. Some Sort of Family (Epilogue)

Three months had passed since MJ had moved in, and things were...better.

Not perfect, certainly.

Peter would still wake up some nights with tears on his face, May and Ben’s faces vivid in his mind. On those nights, it was all he could do to breathe evenly and suppress his sobs, or else FRIDAY would alert Mr. Stark, who’d come running, and Peter was fourteen-and-a-half and a high-schooler and how embarrassing would that be?

A small part of Peter didn’t want company because not even Mr. Stark could be consolation enough for the losses he had suffered.

Other nights, Peter woke up screaming, sobbing, twisting in his sheets at the images of Skip looming over him, MJ lying still and silent with blood pooling around her, the walls of a narrow, overheated closet closing in on him…

Mr. Stark would come in, then, and he’d sit with Peter and murmur reassurances that it was okay, that he wasn’t alone, and that Skip was locked away, and would be for many years, stroking Peter’s hair until his breaths evened out and his tears dried.

But some nights he slept peacefully, and the daylight kept the worst of the memories at bay.

MJ was... MJ, as inscrutable as ever, but she, too, seemed better if Peter looked closely enough. Her demeanor was calmer, her shoulders less tense, and she smiled more often. Natasha would pop in for a visit a few times a week, and she would always take MJ out alone after. Peter never asked what they did during that time, but he could tell that it did MJ a lot of good. She always seemed more content when she came back.

Even so, while Peter had never seen MJ cry, sometimes she would freeze up out of nowhere, or lock herself in her room for hours, and no amount of coaxing on his or Mr. Stark’s part could pull her out of it. Although there was one time, when Peter, MJ, and Mr. Stark were watching a new Netflix original on the ginormous flatscreen, seemingly out of nowhere, MJ gasped sharply and froze in her seat, staring ahead blankly and unmoving. She was unresponsive for the better part of ten minutes, and Peter was moments away from calling an ambulance when Mr. Stark plunked a chess board on the coffee table in front of her and set up the pieces. When Mr. Stark made the final move, she scowled, as she always did when she lost a game, and it was as though nothing had ever happened.

So things were better.

Ned and MJ had hit it off pretty quickly once MJ transferred to Midtown. Peter was pretty surprised, as the two of them couldn’t have been more different. But MJ always seemed to soften around Ned, whose quick smile and openness drew MJ out of herself in a way that Peter could never manage.

Ned came over frequently, these days, having (mostly) gotten over his terrified hero-worship of Mr. Stark enough to relax around him, and they spent many hours together doing homework or messing around in the lab. Ned had nearly peed himself when Natasha came by unexpectedly for dinner one night, but Peter could excuse that because, well, Black Widow.

Ned was always so cheerful and friendly that it took him bursting into tears one evening when Mr. Stark clapped him on the back in passing, and trying valiantly to explain through his sobs that, no, Mr. Stark hadn’t hurt him, he’d just reminded him of his dad, for Peter to fully recognize that he had also suffered losses. Ned still had his mom, his sister, and his home, but he'd lost his dad, and he clearly still felt that loss keenly. 

But things were okay.

Mr. Stark seemed better, too. Far better than he had during those first tentative months that Peter had lived with him. The man smiled more, laughed more, and had returned to his work with a fervor that Peter hadn’t quite realized was missing. 

Mr. Stark still had his moments, though, and Peter had come to know him well enough to notice them. Sometimes, a shadow would cross his face and his eyes would take on a glassy sheen, and Peter knew he was thinking about the past, about the people he had lost and the world that had once been. 

In those moments, Peter would move closer to Mr. Stark and make a snarky comment to get his attention. The relaxing of the man’s shoulders and his mock scowl at those comments was worth Peter being grabbed into a headlock or having his ribs poked at until he laughed and squirmed away. And Peter had to admit, he never really minded it.

Sometimes, Mr. Stark, Natasha, Rhodey, and occasionally Thor (whose presence had sent Ned into another paroxysm) would sequester themselves in the lab, and Peter knew they were doing what they could to help rebuild the world, to somehow make things better for the people who’d been left behind. Even if each one of them struggled to cope with the losses that were still so raw, and grappled with the fear that they might lose everything all over again, the only way to go was forward, and do their best to prepare for whatever might come their way. In the meantime, life with their makeshift family approached normal, and, some days, Peter felt, dare he say it, happy.

And then one day Peter got bitten by a spider.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s all, folks. We’ve finally reached the end of this little story. Thank you all so, so much for reading and participating. It was an amazing experience to write and share with you all, and I have appreciated your feedback more than I can say.  
For those of you who want to see more, I have a handful of one-shots in the works that will be posted soon, including one centered around MJ with a healthy dose of Natasha (I actually wrote most of it before I even started posting this story, because, god, I love those two), as well as one focused on Peter following the spider bite.
> 
> Don’t forget to subscribe to the [Dust to Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1447513) series if you want to be notified about future updates. (shameless self-promotion, I know, but how else are you gonna know when I update? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )
> 
> Next up: MJ’s perspective on the events of From the Ashes, and a study of her growing rapport with Natasha Romanoff.


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